


Hold You Like a Weapon

by MissDavis



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Childbirth, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, Infants, M/M, Masturbation, POV John Watson, Parentlock, Post-Season/Series 04, References to Drug Use, Toddlers, not too graphic though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:08:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 52,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23252971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissDavis/pseuds/MissDavis
Summary: Eurus shows up at 221B Baker Street in labour. Things go downhill from there.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 278
Kudos: 493
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2020, Sherlock Author Showcase 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [Silvergirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silvergirl/pseuds/Silvergirl) and [Luthe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luthe/pseuds/Luthe) for offering their beta services through the Fandom Trumps Hate auction and agreeing to help me with this fic. And thanks to [ gowerstreet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gowerstreet) for providing me with a last-minute Britpick on the first chapter! All mistakes remain mine.

"John, tell me quickly. If I were to attempt to deliver a baby in my flat, what items should I have on hand?"

John had entertained several possibilities when he saw Sherlock's name pop up on his phone screen, but that question was not one he had anticipated. He'd been expecting either something about a case or an invitation to bring Rosie over for dinner tonight, along with a request that he pick up the food on his way. That was what most Saturdays had looked like for the past year or so, after all. He blinked a few times before he realised that Sherlock was still talking, not quite at deduction-speed but still faster and with more agitation than normal. 

"You have delivered a child before, haven't you? I know you came close with Mary, but before that, in Afghanistan—"

"Yeah, yeah." John cut him off. "I helped out with a few deliveries. But if you have someone in your flat who's about to give birth, you need to get them to hospital." 

"I can't."

"Why not? Call a cab, or an ambulance if the contractions are less than two minutes apart." He glanced across the room at Rosie, remembering how close she'd come to being born in the backseat of their car. 

"John, I can't." 

John could hear the anguish in Sherlock's voice, and a flicker of worry started to worm its way into his mind as he considered what might render Sherlock unable to leave the flat or call 999. "Why can't you? Damn it, Sherlock, this isn't—"

"It's Eurus."

"What?" The words hung in the air between them, and John's whole body went cold as he had a sudden flashback to the horrors they'd endured a year and a half ago at Eurus's hands. He swallowed and looked across the room at Rosie again. She was sitting on the floor by the front window, quietly playing with a zoo's worth of stuffed animals, oblivious to him but providing much-needed confirmation that he was safe and in his own house, far from Sherrinford.

"It's Eurus," Sherlock repeated. "I found her. Well, she found me. She showed up at the door a little while ago and she's 41 weeks pregnant and her contractions are five minutes apart. Which I know is the time when Mary was told to go to hospital, but I can't—she can't—so I called you, instead. Will you come? I don't think I can do this by myself."

"Sherlock." John turned away from Rosie, lowering his voice. "Is this a joke? Please say you're joking." 

"No. I wouldn't—no." 

John hesitated a moment, letting the implications fall into place in his head before speaking. Eurus had escaped from prison early last summer and hadn't been seen or heard from in...a little over nine months. Shit. This wasn't a joke. He stepped out of the living room, leaving Rosie just out of sight as he leaned against the wall of the kitchen. "Is she—is she going to try to kill us? Is she forcing you to call me so she can kill me when I walk through the door?" 

"She doesn't have a weapon and she's in no condition to overpower either of us at the moment, though I wouldn't want to be standing too close when her next contraction hits. Which will be in about a minute and a half, if I've got the timing right. Can you get here?"

How would he be able to tell if Eurus was forcing Sherlock to say that? Sherlock was an excellent liar, but he would try to warn John off, wouldn't he? What would he say that Eurus wouldn't be able to pick up on? John lifted the phone from his ear and frowned at it. Sherlock sounded scared, yes, but also sincere. He sucked in a breath and let it out slowly before bringing the phone back to his ear. "I have Rosie, Sherlock. Her sitter's out of town for the weekend. I'm not bringing my daughter anywhere near your psychopath sister."

"Mrs. Hudson is home. She doesn't know what's going on up here, yet. You can leave Rosie with her. But trust me, Eurus is in no condition to harm anyone right now."

John closed his eyes and tried to think of what he should do. "How much is she dilated?"

"How am I supposed to know the answer to that?"

"You can check. You just—"

"John, she's my sister! I'm not—how quickly can you get here? You'll have to drive. It will be quicker than getting a cab and I can't have Mycroft send a car. He can't know."

Mycroft needed to know; he'd spent the better part of the last year trying to find Eurus, without ever getting a single lead, as far as John knew. "He—"

"No. He cannot know. John, listen to me. There is an innocent child about to be born here. What do you think Mycroft would do if he found out?"

"I—I don't know." That was too much to think about. John tried to focus on the most urgent matter. A woman in labour, contractions five minutes apart. First time giving birth, so most likely she still had hours to go, but there was no way to be certain. "When did her contractions start?"

"I don't know. She got here about thirty minutes ago. I can go ask—I put her in my bedroom. I'm going to need to buy a new mattress, aren't I?"

"You—Sherlock." He lowered the phone from his ear and closed his eyes for a moment, waiting to see which part of his brain was going to seize control: calm, professional doctor or terrified, panicking father. "Christ. All right. I'll be there. Give me...forty-five minutes. But if her contractions get too close, or anything else seems to be going wrong, you need to call an ambulance, okay?"

Sherlock didn't respond, though John could hear him breathing through the phone.

"Just say okay, please? If there's a complication and she's not in hospital, she and the baby could both die."

There was another long pause, and John hoped it meant Sherlock was reconsidering his refusal to take her to hospital right now, but after a few seconds he said, "Okay. Thank you. Please hurry."

"I will." John ended the call. Fuck. What had he just agreed to? He shoved his phone into his pocket and exhaled. Across the room, Rosie glanced up from her animals and he forced himself to smile at her. "Hey, sweetie, grab Mr. Bear and come upstairs with me to get your shoes on. We're going out for a little while." 

"Pwize?" Rosie asked, popping up from where she was sitting, her favourite bear dangling from one hand.

"Yes, it's a surprise," he replied. She'd do almost anything he asked if he promised her a surprise, though he tried to use the tactic judiciously so it didn't lose its effectiveness. Sherlock's phone call certainly qualified as a surprise, though. 

"Pwize!" Rosie shouted. She dropped Mr. Bear and took off towards the stairs. 

John followed her, pulling his phone from his pocket again as he climbed the stairs. He hit Molly's number, hoping she would answer. There was no way in hell he was going to bring Rosie to Baker Street with him. He'd drop her at the morgue with Molly if need be; anything was better than having her in the same building as Eurus.

Molly answered immediately, a good sign, and he could hear the genuine enthusiasm in her voice when he asked if she would be willing to watch Rosie for at least a few hours, and quite possibly keep her overnight.

"I'd love to! I haven't seen that little bean in ages. Are you going to help Sherlock with a case, then?"

"Ah, not exactly. He just needs me to, erm, provide some medical assistance and I'd rather not have Rosie with me."

"Oh, is he okay? What did he do to himself this time?"

"Sorry, what? Oh. Yeah, no, it's not Sherlock who needs medical care. It's...a friend of his."

"Is it Bill?"

"Who?" John had started to throw an overnight bag together for Rosie and between that and keeping an eye on her to see what she was adding to the bag it was a little difficult to follow the conversation with Molly.

"Bill Wiggins? Billy?"

"No, no. It's ah. Someone showed up at his flat in labour. They don't want to go to hospital." He could imagine Molly's look of confusion as she tried to figure out who Sherlock knew who was likely to be pregnant, and then it dawned on him that it might be a good idea to let someone know exactly what was going on. At least he knew Molly could keep a secret, even if he wasn't sure that this was one that should be kept. "It's Eurus," he told her, lowering his voice despite the fact that Rosie would have no idea what the name meant. "Sherlock doesn't want to tell anyone, especially Mycroft, but you should probably know. In case she kills both of us, you can tell the police who it was." 

"Oh. Oh, God, John. Should I—shouldn't we call the police? Or someone? Mycroft's people have been looking for her for months." The fact that Eurus had dragged Molly into her torture games at Sherrinford meant that they'd kept Molly in the loop when Eurus escaped, in case she became a target again. 

"Yeah, yeah, I know. Sherlock seems to think she can't do any harm right now, which might be true if she's really in labour. But once she's had the baby...." He trailed off, unsure of what would happen. He certainly couldn't imagine Eurus as a mother.

"Are you sure it's a good idea for you to go there?" Molly asked.

"No, of course I'm not. But, it's Sherlock." He paused. "You—you know how it is. He asks and it's just...."

Molly didn't reply for a moment, then he heard her clear her throat. "All right," she said. "But be careful, John. Can you try to check in with me periodically so I know everyone's okay?"

"Yeah, I will." 

"Pwize!" Rosie demanded. She climbed up onto the low mattress of her toddler bed and reached for John's phone as he ended the call with Molly. 

"Nope, not my phone." John tucked it back into his pocket. "Go pick out some socks to wear because you're going to see Aunt Molly. Doesn't that sound like fun?"

"Fun!" Rosie hopped off the bed, landing lightly on her feet, and ran over to her chest of drawers. She pulled open all three drawers and started to use the bottom one as a step before he stopped her, lifting her off with one arm and pulling over the sturdy footstool he'd bought expressly for the purpose of allowing her to reach the top drawer. She let herself be transferred to the footstool without objection, then began to root through the drawer full of socks and underwear. "Gween!" she announced, pulling out a plain white pair of socks and brandishing them in the air. 

John decided he didn't have time for a lesson on colours, especially given that she didn't actually own any green socks, as far as he recalled. He pulled two complete outfit changes and a nightgown from her drawers and added them to her overnight bag, then squatted on the floor to help her put on the socks. "Where are your shoes?"

"Downstairs," she said. "They muddy."

Now that she said it, he did recall her traipsing through the mud when he picked her up from the sitter's yesterday. "Okay, go downstairs and get Mr. Bear. I'll be down in a minute to help you with your shoes. Then we can go see Aunt Molly. She can't wait to see you." He tapped her on the nose and decided Molly would take care of the tangled state of her hair for him. 

"Aunt Mowwy!" Rosie shouted and ran out of the bedroom. Molly didn't watch her regularly now that John had found a reliable sitter whose availability meshed with his work schedule, which meant that getting to visit her was a special treat in Rosie's mind.

He finished packing Rosie's bag, taking out all of the chunky LEGO pieces she had put into it—it was hard enough keeping track of the sets here in the house, never mind carrying them around London. He added two of the picture books that she liked to hear at bedtime, then headed down the hall to his own room. 

There was a decent stash of medical supplies at Baker Street already, he knew, but now he dug out his full medical kit. He'd need at least the stethoscope and blood pressure cuff: if Eurus's blood pressure got out of hand, or the baby's heartbeat wasn't strong, Sherlock wouldn't be able to argue about whether she needed to be in hospital. There was only so much they could do for her at home, regardless of how many births John had been present for in the past. He hoped it didn't come to that, though, because he knew trying to get Eurus to cooperate enough to go to hospital would be close to impossible. 

As he closed up his med kit, he almost laughed out loud. Here he was, praying that Eurus was healthy and that she would have a safe and complication-free delivery. How the hell had he ended up in this position? Except he knew exactly how he'd got to this point, of course. He really only had two motivations for most of the things he did these days: Rosie, and, as always, Sherlock. He sighed, then went downstairs to get Rosie so he could drop her off at Molly's on his way to Baker Street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am actively working on this story, but I can't promise a specific timeline for posting as pretty much everything in my life/the world is up in the air right now. And I keep getting ideas for different porny shorts for the [ Isolated Johnlock Collection](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/IsolatedJohnlockCollection) so I may be distracted by writing a couple more of those. ([Subscribe to me](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissDavis/profile) if you're interested in seeing them!) Or check out [some of my other works](https://archiveofourown.org/works?utf8=%E2%9C%93&commit=Sort+and+Filter&work_search%5Bsort_column%5D=kudos_count&work_search%5Bother_tag_names%5D=&work_search%5Bexcluded_tag_names%5D=&work_search%5Bcrossover%5D=&work_search%5Bcomplete%5D=&work_search%5Bwords_from%5D=&work_search%5Bwords_to%5D=&work_search%5Bdate_from%5D=&work_search%5Bdate_to%5D=&work_search%5Bquery%5D=&work_search%5Blanguage_id%5D=&user_id=MissDavis) if you're looking for something to read now. Thanks!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait--I am trying not to pressure myself with this story, but I also got distracted and wrote [ a bunch of "ficlets" including one that ended up being 8K words long](https://archiveofourown.org/works?utf8=%E2%9C%93&work_search%5Bsort_column%5D=revised_at&work_search%5Bother_tag_names%5D=&work_search%5Bexcluded_tag_names%5D=&work_search%5Bcrossover%5D=&work_search%5Bcomplete%5D=&work_search%5Bwords_from%5D=&work_search%5Bwords_to%5D=&work_search%5Bdate_from%5D=2020-03-21&work_search%5Bdate_to%5D=2020-05-08&work_search%5Bquery%5D=&work_search%5Blanguage_id%5D=&commit=Sort+and+Filter&user_id=MissDavis). :)
> 
> I did my best with the details on this chapter, but I don't have a medical/childbirth beta or Britpicker for this story so I apologize for any mistakes. If you're squeamish about childbirth, don't worry, I was told this wasn't too detailed. It helps that as a writer I'm an under-describer anyway.

John paused on the pavement outside the door to Sherlock's flat. Eurus. Was she really here? In labour? He was nearly certain that this wasn't some elaborate joke Sherlock was playing, though now that he was here, he almost wished it were. The last time he'd seen her, Eurus had tried to drown him in a well. Why was he still so willing to run straight into danger just because Sherlock asked him to?

No. He was here to provide medical service to someone in need. He'd sworn an oath to do that, a long time ago, hadn't he? He took a steadying breath, debated ringing the bell, then drew his keys from his pocket. It was strange, opening the door to Baker Street without Rosie in tow. Mrs. Hudson or Sherlock watched her when he had weekend shifts at work or a therapist's appointment, and even when he didn't, John made a point of bringing her by to visit several times a week, especially when he knew there weren't any good cases on. It had been ages since he'd been here alone, and carrying a medical kit rather than a changing bag full of nappies and toys.

He glanced at the door to Mrs. Hudson's flat before he started up the staircase. She always chided him if he didn't stop and say hello, but he thought today it might be better if she remained unaware that anything unusual was happening upstairs. 

He paused again at the top of the stairs, then rapped on the door, turning the knob at the same time. "Sherlock?"

"In here!" The shout came from the direction of the bedroom. Sherlock sounded more rattled than he had on the phone, and John was once more seized by doubt. For the first time, he regretted getting rid of his and Mary's guns last year, when Rosie had started walking and getting into everything in sight. He'd thought his days of having to shoot people—or defend himself—were finally over.

"Everything okay?" He tried to keep his voice casual as he stepped into the flat and started through the kitchen, even as he mentally began to plan what he would do if he reached the bedroom to find Eurus with a knife to Sherlock's throat or a similar situation.

The door to the bedroom was open, and Sherlock popped out through it as soon as John set foot in the hallway. He was barefoot, dressed in a pair of trousers and a dark blue dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. "John, thank God. I wasn't sure if you would really come."

"I told you I would." 

"Yes." Sherlock blinked once at him before continuing. "Thank you. Her water broke. Contractions are three minutes apart. I'm almost out of clean towels." He started to unroll one of his sleeves, stood stock-still for a moment, then pushed it back up to his elbow again. "Thank God you're here," he repeated. "I need to go down to Mrs. Hudson's for more towels and I don't want to leave her here alone." He moved as if to walk down the hall past John and John planted himself firmly in his path.

"Nope, no way. You are not leaving me to go face her alone. Towels can wait. We'll buy you a new mattress if she bleeds all over it."

"She's not bleeding. It's just very...wet."

"Yeah, that happens when the water breaks. Come on." He put his hands out and Sherlock huffed and turned around, sparing John the need to try to physically wrestle him back towards the bedroom. 

He followed Sherlock down the hall, trying to ignore the fact that his palms were sweaty and his heart felt like it was about to pound its way out of his chest. Sherlock entered the bedroom ahead of him, without hesitation. John stopped in the doorway, taking stock.

The room was darker than he would have liked, but he could see Eurus, curled on her side on the bed, facing him. Her hair was shorter than it had been the last time he'd seen her, just past her chin and falling in dark, untended waves. She wore no makeup, which was oddly reassuring. She looked like herself, absent any of the elaborate disguises she had used in the past. She'd stripped down to nothing but a white tank top. A camisole: he knew the word from Mary and would teach it to Rosie one day. He pushed away the thought. Rosie was safe at Molly's flat. Eurus was here, in front of him. The last time he'd faced her, he'd had to be a soldier, but today he was a doctor and she was his patient. He could do this. 

Still, he hesitated, unsure of how to interact with her. Normally, he would greet a patient by name, ask how they were doing, maybe even make a small joke to try to put them at ease, but he couldn't make himself do that with her. He gave her a nod, instead, and stepped all the way into the room.

"Dr. Watson." She showed no hesitation in addressing him. "I knew you'd come. He thought you might not, but I knew." She nodded towards Sherlock, then rolled over onto her back and heaved herself up to sitting, groaning with the movement. She leaned back on a pillow propped against the headboard, one hand spread over her stomach in the protective gesture of mothers-to-be everywhere, and made eye contact with him. "You'll do anything he asks of you, won't you? How does my brother inspire such loyalty? I've always wondered about that. I think—" She cut herself off with a grimace as she bent forward, pulling her legs up and curling her fingers into the bedsheets on either side of her. 

"John, ignore what she says. Just help her." Sherlock strode around the bed to stand on the far side, across from John. "She talks a lot—I think she can't help herself. Earlier she said that I was nicer than anyone she'd ever met, then a minute later she was screaming, asking why I hadn't tried to find her earlier. I don't think she even—"

John tuned out Sherlock's nervous chatter so he could watch Eurus. A contraction. She was definitely not faking it. His nerves unclenched a bit as he watched her grit her way through the pain. Three minutes apart, Sherlock had said. She was close, then, most likely. 

"Turn on that little lamp over there and open the curtains." He lifted his chin towards Sherlock, who had stopped talking when he realised John wasn't listening. They wouldn't get much light through the windows at this time of day, but every little bit helped, and he was pleased to see that Sherlock did as he asked without question. He would have had him open the windows, as well, but it was probably best to leave them closed in case Eurus turned out to be a screamer, which seemed likely.

He opened the door to the loo so he could turn on that light, too, then stepped in to wash his hands. The routine of methodically cleaning his hands and then opening his med kit helped steady him further. Patient. She was a patient and he was a doctor. He glanced at himself in the mirror, blew out a breath, then picked up a pair of disposable gloves before re-joining Eurus and Sherlock in the bedroom. 

Eurus pushed her hair back behind her ears and gave him a smile he had no idea how to interpret. "I'm all for you wearing gloves, Dr. Watson. It's very professional of you. But I am clean, you should know. Well, I'm a bit filthy at the moment, but you know what I mean."

"And who's the father?" John asked. "Is he clean?"

Eurus's lips pursed for a moment before she answered, though not the question he had asked. "I got tested after I knew for sure I was pregnant, and again at 24 weeks."

"And you haven't killed anyone and bathed in their blood since then?" John pulled the gloves on, letting them snap against his wrists for effect.

"Touché, Dr. Watson." Eurus cackled, the sound turning into a grunt of pain as another contraction hit. 

That was less than three minutes apart, John was certain. He'd got here just in time, it seemed. 

Sherlock was still standing across the room, fiddling with the curtain on one of the windows, as if having it open an extra inch or two might make a difference in the room's lighting. John pointed at him. "Get out a set of clean sheets—we can use them instead of more towels. Pillowcases, too, we can use them for swaddling. Then wash your hands and put on a pair of gloves." 

"Me?" Sherlock turned to face him fully. "I'm not—I don't know how to help deliver a child."

"You've helped me with minor medical procedures before and I know you're not usually squeamish, so get over it and do what I tell you to do. Get me a set of sheets, then go wash your hands." He knew from long experience that although Sherlock didn't always take well to commands, there were a few specific situations where he needed John to take charge, and this was definitely one of them. 

"Fascinating," Eurus said, her gaze fixed on Sherlock as he crossed the room to open the chest that held his bed linens. 

John ignored her comment. He took a deep breath and approached the bed to ask a question he'd never imagined he would need to ask of her. "How are you feeling?" 

"As if I have a watermelon trying to force itself out through my vagina. How do you think I feel?"

John tried to make himself smile at her. "Well, the good news is, a woman of your size is unlikely to have a baby as large as a watermelon, unless the father was a giant."

"He was closer to your size than his," she said to John, nodding towards Sherlock. She smirked and added, "Looked more like you, too, in case that means anything to you." 

She was just trying to make him uncomfortable, now. He ignored her comment again and continued, sticking with questions he would ask any other patient in this situation. "Have you had any prenatal care? Any tests or scans?"

"I told you, I had bloodwork at 24 weeks. I've been taking vitamins, avoiding everything I'm supposed to avoid. No scans, though. I hope it's a girl."

John frowned. He would have been a lot more comfortable knowing she'd had regular prenatal care to catch any possible problems earlier. He didn't dare imagine what Eurus might do if something went wrong with the delivery or there was a problem with the baby. "You're how old? A year younger than Sherlock?"

"I don't know."

"Sorry, what?"

She wrinkled her nose and stared at the wall behind him. "It was easy to lose track of time in Sherrinford, especially when I was younger. I know I was six when I was sent away, but I don't know what year that was, or the year I was born."

Jesus. John couldn't even imagine having lived a whole life like that. "No one ever told you how old you were?"

She shrugged and switched her gaze back to meet his eyes. "I didn't ask. It didn't seem relevant."

"You're 39," Sherlock said, dropping an armful of clean sheets on the chair in the corner and coming to stand next to the bed. "Your birthday is in March." 

"I remember it being in March. Are you sure about the year?"

"I'm sure. Mummy has your baby book. She kept it hidden all these years. From me." 

John knew that Sherlock had made an effort to find out as much as he could about Eurus, once he'd remembered that she existed. At first, John had found it understandable—of course Sherlock would want to fill in the blank spots of his past. Anyone would, and Sherlock valued his memory more than most people. What John didn't quite get was why he'd kept in contact with her. Yes, she was his sister, but she'd killed his childhood friend and then tortured him, Mycroft and John before almost killing them, as well. He knew Sherlock was a forgiving man, but what Eurus had done seemed far beyond anything else he had endured. Yet Sherlock had continued to reach out to her, visiting her nearly every week in Sherrinford, right up until the time she had escaped last summer. John didn't think he was ever going to understand, and to be perfectly frank, he didn't want to. He was always going to see Eurus as a threat. 

He cleared his throat to interrupt the conversation between her and Sherlock. When he was sure he had their attention, he asked, "What, you mean the baby book wasn't destroyed when she burned down your family's house?"

Sherlock and Eurus both gaped at him; Sherlock looked shocked but Eurus's expression was closer to amusement. 

John felt a moment of compunction, only because he knew he shouldn't let his personal feelings about Eurus interfere with her care. He shook his head. "It doesn't matter exactly how old you are. Any pregnancy over age 35 is technically high risk, but if you got this far with no issues, then you're probably fine." He made himself soften his shoulders and uncurl his hands. "I need to check to see how far your cervix has dilated, and then I'll take your blood pressure. Is that all right?"

Eurus kept her gaze locked on him for a moment, then nodded. A second later she gritted her teeth and pressed her feet down into the mattress as another contraction started. 

John tried to remember if there was anything that he'd learned in Mary's childbirth classes that could help make the contractions easier to bear. He'd only gone to the last two sessions, after he and Mary had reconciled on Christmas Day. He wasn't about to offer to massage Eurus through a contraction, though, or try to walk her around the flat or offer a water birth—God knew when Sherlock had last cleaned his bathtub. And he suspected it was too late for most of the measures designed to make her more comfortable, anyway. 

Once her contraction passed, he got her to lie down and sent Sherlock into the loo to fetch the blood pressure cuff and stethoscope. He was willing to spare him the sight of his sister's cervix for the time being, though he was likely to see more than he wanted to by the time this was over. 

As he leaned forward to check her, he was all too aware of how close her feet were to his head, and had to remind himself that if she'd wanted to kill him, there would have been much easier ways to arrange it than getting pregnant and then waiting nine months so she could kick him to death. And she'd shown no signs of refusing to cooperate with him so far, agreeing to his examination without protest. "Okay, it looks like you're at about eight centimetres already. It won't be too much longer. I see the baby's head pressed against the opening just like it should be. Everything looks good."

He brushed a hand against her knee as he straightened up, an automatic gesture of comfort, and she flinched away at the touch, closing her legs and pulling her knees up as close to her chest as she could manage. 

John held up both his hands in a gesture of mollification, then noticed that her toes had remnants of varnish on the nails. Bright pink, chipped and halfway grown out, but definitely there. Of course, she probably would have had a hard time reaching her own toes to clean it off or touch it up for the last month or so. But before that she'd painted them or gone for a pedicure. Not something he would have expected of her. Why would she have bothered? She'd been on the run for ages, presumably alone. No one would have seen it. He glanced at her hands, curled into fists on her knees at the moment, but there was no varnish visible on her fingernails. Had she worn it when she'd pretended to be his therapist or the redhead he'd seen on the bus? 

Before he could think back, she began to moan, a low, uncomfortable sound that he was now familiar with. She wasn't a screamer—he'd give her that. He knew all women in labour were able to withstand pain he couldn't even imagine, but she seemed able to tough it out as well as or better than anyone he'd ever seen. 

"I've got the sphygmomanometer and—" Sherlock stopped mid-sentence, standing just outside the door to the loo, a metre or so away from the bed, holding John's blood pressure cuff and stethoscope out in front of him. He looked ready to defend himself with the instruments if necessary, though John didn't think he was afraid of Eurus as much as he was wary of the process of childbirth in general. "Eurus, are you all right?" 

"No, I'm not all right," she gasped. "What the hell is wrong with you? How could you possibly think I'm all right? It hurts!" She drew out the last word, nails digging grooves into her thighs.

"John? Can't you give her something for the pain?"

John wrinkled his brow. He didn't have anything in his med kit beyond paracetamol and ibuprofen, and didn't want to think about whether Sherlock might have anything stronger stashed away in the flat. Besides, anything she took orally would take too long to work anyway. "I know it hurts, Eurus, but you're doing a great job. I think you're going to have this baby before any medicine would even have time to kick in."

"Good," she growled. "Can I start pushing? I want to be done now."

"Erm, no. Not yet. You don't want to risk any tearing. But when it's time to push, you'll know." At least, that was his understanding, and it seemed to have been true with Mary and the other women he'd helped deliver. 

He picked up the blood pressure cuff and stethoscope and took her blood pressure, more to have something to do than for any other reason. He had no baseline to compare the measurement to, and she was progressing quickly enough that elevated pressure was unlikely to be a problem for long, though if it was very high, then she would need to get to a hospital once she delivered. But her numbers looked fine to him, and she didn't seem any more swollen than she should be, so he doubted she had pre-eclampsia. "You didn't have any severe headaches or other unusual symptoms in the last trimester, did you?"

"My back hurt and everything I ate gave me heartburn and I've had to piss every three minutes for the last two months. Any of those symptoms unusual?"

"Sounds like Mary," Sherlock said, and John glanced at him, wondering if Mary was the only other pregnant woman he'd ever known. Possibly. Just about the only woman he knew under age 70 was Molly. 

"She sounds like every pregnant woman," John said, then turned to Eurus. "You seem to have had a very healthy pregnancy, and everything looks like it should right now. You just have to wait to be a couple more centimetres dilated, and then it will be time to push. You're almost done." He almost said that she'd be holding her baby soon, but he still couldn't imagine her with a child in her arms. He knew he should get used to the idea, because they didn't have a lot of time left, but Eurus as a mother was truly unimaginable. 

He pushed back the panic threatening at the thought. A doctor, and a soldier, if need be. He glanced at Sherlock, who was hovering between the loo and the bed, looking like he needed something to do. "Go round up whatever you can find in the flat that's left over from when Rosie was a baby. You can probably find some nappies that aren't too big if you look hard enough."

"There are bottles on top of the fridge-freezer, but they'll need to be cleaned." Sherlock turned and left the room; with him gone, John certainly wasn't about to start a conversation with Eurus about whether she planned to breast or bottle-feed the baby. 

He could hear Sherlock moving through the flat, though after a few moments he turned his attention to making sure he had everything he would need to actually deliver the baby. He was all set—all there was for him to do was wait, while Eurus did the real work of enduring near-constant contractions. 

She was almost fully dilated before John realised that Sherlock hadn't returned to the bedroom, although the better part of an hour had passed. 

The thought must have shown on his face, because Eurus choked out a painful-sounding laugh. "Go on, Dr. Watson. I can see you're worried about him. Go find him. I'll be fine here on my own."

He narrowed his eyes at her, knowing she was being sarcastic but also worried about where Sherlock had gone. "You will be fine. Don't push until I get back." He darted out of the room, calling Sherlock's name as he ran. 

As soon as he reached the living room, he heard a clatter from the stairwell. The door to the flat swung open, revealing Sherlock carrying a half-collapsed travel cot, the one that Mrs. Hudson kept in her flat for Rosie to nap in.

"What are you—" John stopped himself. It was clear what Sherlock was doing, and they would need a place for the baby to sleep. 

"Relax," Sherlock said. "Mrs. Hudson is watching telly and didn't even notice I was in her flat. And I found the bassinet attachment upstairs in storage." He put the cot down, shaking it out so it opened fully, and then went back into the hallway to retrieve the bassinet that could be placed on top of it for younger babies. "And I called Wiggins and arranged to have him pick up and deliver nappies and some gender-neutral bodysuits and rompers. I sterilised the bottles I have, and told Wiggins to get some smaller nipples and formula. Unless you think Eurus is going to want to nurse?"

"I have no idea if she wants to nurse, Sherlock. You can ask her. Did you really get all of that done while I was in with her?"

"Yes, of course. And I sanitised one of the scales I have in the kitchen, so we can weigh the baby. It goes up to eleven pounds—that should be enough, right?"

"Yes, I'm positive she's not going to have an eleven-pound baby." 

"Good. Good." He rubbed his hands together. "How is she doing?"

"She's fine. Almost ready—any minute now, really. We should get back." He resisted the urge to grab Sherlock by the arm and drag him down the hallway only because he'd already changed his gloves twice, and Sherlock was probably dusty from digging through the mess of storage he had up in the cupboards of John's old room. "Go wash your hands and put on gloves like I told you to do earlier. Just in case I need your help." 

"If I'd put gloves on earlier, I would have had to take them off again anyway," Sherlock said, but went obediently through the kitchen and into the loo. 

John returned to the bedroom, the anxiety he'd felt when he'd first arrived today now almost completely gone. He'd spent an hour alone in a room with Eurus and survived. Delivering a baby seemed easy in comparison.

"It's time," she informed him, as he stepped up to the foot of the bed, and when he checked, he saw that she was correct—she was finally fully dilated and the baby was ready to be born.

Sherlock came out of the loo, wearing gloves as John had requested, though his help proved unnecessary in the end.

John had already thought that Eurus was the most in-control woman in labour he'd ever seen, but now that it was time to push, she showed even more discipline. Not too slow, not too fast—which he'd been afraid of, because he really didn't want to have to give her stitches—just a few strong, measured pushes and he was catching the baby, who gave a hearty cry as soon as she was in John's hands.

"A little girl," he said, wiping her nose and mouth clear so she could bawl even more loudly. "She looks perfect." 

"Of course she's perfect," Eurus panted, collapsing backwards out of the squatting position she'd been in. "And of course she's a girl. I told you that was what I wanted." 

John grinned, letting himself relax all the way for the first time since he'd answered Sherlock's phone call hours earlier. "Here, you can hold her while I cut the cord."

"No," Eurus said, and crossed her arms over her chest. "I can't. Not yet. I will, but not yet. You keep her for now," she said, leaving John standing at her bedside, her new-born daughter still crying in his arms.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a small panic attack in this chapter, in case that's something you'd rather avoid reading about.

Sherlock held the baby so John could clamp and cut the umbilical cord, then attend to Eurus. She lay nearly unresponsive while he made sure all of the afterbirth had been expelled and that she wasn't bleeding too heavily. 

"Eurus?" he said, when he was done. "Are you feeling all right?" She was scaring him, now, but not the way she usually did.

She met his eyes but didn't reply, although when he straightened some of the bedding around her, she reached down and pulled the top sheet up to her torso. 

Sherlock stepped closer to the bed, still holding the baby, looking much more natural than he had when he'd first held Rosie. "She's all right," he said, nodding at Eurus. "Give her some time. She needs to process everything that's happened." 

"Right." John stared at her for a moment, but he thought Sherlock was correct and that her lack of response didn't have a physical cause. After all, she'd gone months without speaking after she'd lured them to Sherrinford and tortured them. 

He turned away from the bed. "Erm, can you text Wiggins and have him pick up some sanitary pads? The thick kind." 

Sherlock nodded and then carefully passed the baby back to John.

John cradled her in one arm, stroking the thin, dark hair on her head with his free hand. He'd forgotten the simultaneously terrifying and exhilarating sensation of holding a new-born for the first time. "Hey, sweetie," he whispered. "Look at you. You've got some big, beautiful, blue eyes, don't you? I wonder if they'll stay that colour." He glanced over again at Eurus, who was staring blankly at the wall with eyes the same pale blue shade as Sherlock's. John's gaze strayed briefly to Sherlock, then he shifted his attention back to the baby in his arms. "Let's see how big you are, then we can get you wrapped up so you won't be cold."

He set her gently down on the scale that Sherlock normally used for weighing body parts from the morgue. She whined when the cold metal touched her skin, and he kept his hands close, although she was far too small to roll over and fall off the scale. "Seven pounds, six ounces," he announced, noting that Eurus lifted her head to watch as he weighed her. That was progress, he supposed. "We'll have to check how long you are later, when we've got a tape measure handy," he said to the baby. "Let's get you wrapped up warm now. Sherlock, maybe you could sacrifice an old t-shirt to use as a nappy until Wiggins gets here?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes but opened his chest of drawers, frowning at the clothes inside it.

“Any shirt will do. Just grab one.” John lifted the baby and held her close to his chest, stepping towards Sherlock as he rummaged through a stack of shirts. “Hey, since when are you a U2 fan?”

Sherlock put his hand over the t-shirt that John had seen in the drawer, one that John himself had bought at a concert when he was in uni. “I don’t even know what a U2 is,” Sherlock said. “I must have accidentally mixed some of your laundry with mine at some point." He pulled a plain grey shirt out from beneath it, and held it out to John. 

Ignoring the mystery of why Sherlock had kept one of his old t-shirts in his drawer for the better part of a decade, John tipped his head in the direction of the kitchen. "Go get some scissors—not the ones from my med kit—and slice off about a foot of the bottom fabric. And find some big safety pins, if you can."

Sherlock did as he asked, and John set the baby down on the changing table attachment of the travel cot they'd placed next to the bed. When he tried to wrap the shirt around her, she began to squeal even louder than she had when she'd been on the scale. "Shh, it's all right, sweetie." It took him a few tries to find the correct positioning, but eventually he got the shirt to somewhat resemble a nappy and pinned it in place around her. 

She continued to cry, so he took one of the pillowcases Sherlock had got out earlier and swaddled her, tucking her arms in tight, just as he'd done so many times with Rosie. He lifted her to his shoulder, his body starting to move from side-to-side without him even thinking about it. The movement comforted her immediately. He swayed back and forth, holding her upright against his shoulder with both hands. He could see Eurus was paying attention again, and while he still couldn't imagine her functioning as a mother, he also felt compelled to demonstrate some of what he knew about taking care of a baby, without directly telling her what to do. "You like being held like this because it makes you feel safe, doesn't it, little sweetie?" 

"Her name is Eve," Eurus said. 

"Eve?" John turned to face her, frowning, not because he disapproved of the name but because he was caught off guard hearing her speak again.

"I think it's a lovely name," Sherlock said, stepping around the bottom of the bed so he stood next to John. "She'll be a fresh start for you."

Eurus's nose wrinkled. "I want her to have the same initials as I do without having to spell her name for everyone she meets."

Sherlock hesitated for only a second before nodding. "Also good considerations."

"I want to hold her now." Eurus lifted her arms into the air, staring past Sherlock at the baby on John's shoulder—Eve. Her name was Eve.

John swallowed. As much as his gut told him not to trust her, he didn't see any way to refuse. Eve was her child. "Sit up straight, if you can," he told her. "You'll need to make sure to support her head."

"I know. I have held a baby before."

"Have you." Maybe she was telling the truth. Who knew how she'd spent the last nine months, or how many times before that she'd slipped out of Sherrinford and impersonated others? Maybe Mycroft had brought her a child to play with one Christmas. 

"Yes," Eurus replied, and motioned with her hands once again, as regal a gesture as John had ever seen Sherlock make, despite the fact that she was lying in bed half-dressed and clearly exhausted. 

John bit down on his bottom lip before cautiously handing Eve over, into Eurus's waiting arms. He took one step back but didn't go any further, just shot a quick glance at Sherlock, remembering how awkward he'd been the first time he ever held Rosie.

In contrast, it did indeed appear as if Eurus had held an infant before. She cradled her in the crook of her arm against her chest and when Eve turned her head towards her, Eurus lifted her camisole and tried to get her to open her mouth by stroking her face with one finger. "I've been reading about breastfeeding," she said. "I know I'm most likely not producing any milk yet, but I don't know what it will feel like when I do." 

"Do your breasts hurt?" John asked. He made a motion with his hands at his chest, unsure of any details other than that Mary had been in pain when her milk came in, although it didn't happen until a day or two after Rosie was born.

Eurus pushed her hair back with the hand not holding the baby and then looked up to meet John's eyes. "From the waist down, it feels as if my body has been flayed open and both my hips broken. I haven't eaten since last night and I haven't slept since the night before that. So, no, my breasts are not among my top ten complaints right now."

"I'll get you some ibuprofen," Sherlock said, stepping so he stood in between John and Eurus.

"And something to eat," she said, looking down at Eve again, who had her mouth against her breast but seemed to be falling asleep. "Eggs. Eggs sound good."

"Erm, eggs," Sherlock said and stared into space for a second or two.

John knew that he was considering the wisdom of calling Mrs. Hudson upstairs to cook for them. "I don't think Sherlock has any eggs," he said. 

"He has eggs," Eurus said, without lifting her gaze from Eve. "And I bet that between the two of you, you could figure out how to cook them. A tip: turn the flame up higher and they'll cook faster."

"We don't—it doesn't take two of us to cook eggs," John said.

"No, but you've needed to use the loo for the last hour and you're dying to get away from me, just to have a little bit of breathing room, aren't you, Dr. Watson? John." She looked up and met his eyes. "You can leave me alone with her. I won't hurt her."

John felt the left side of his face twitch. He did need the loo, but he could go while Sherlock stayed in the room with Eurus. But was that their plan—one of them would stay in the room with Eurus and the baby at all times until...until what? Until Mycroft came and took Eurus back to prison and Eve—what would he do with Eve?

He looked to Sherlock, asking without words what he thought. Sherlock gave a short nod and tipped his head towards the kitchen. But Sherlock believed that Eurus had changed since that day she'd tortured them in Sherrinford. Had she? Maybe. She'd carried Eve for nine months without harming her, and John had no reason to believe that was going to change now. But he still didn't trust her. 

"Go on." She waved her fingers at them and then shifted her hold on Eve so she was cradling her in both arms. "Go make me some food and you can discuss all the things the two of you need to talk about in private."

Sherlock squinted at her briefly but turned and left the room, and after a moment's hesitation, John did, too. When he was finished in the loo, he went into the kitchen to find Sherlock standing in front of the open fridge. 

"You're really going to make eggs for her?"

"She needs to eat," Sherlock said. "I imagine giving birth burns a lot of calories. Even I'm hungry, and I was just watching." He bent and pulled out the carton of eggs, then the milk. "I remember she liked scrambled eggs when we were young. Mummy used a heavy cream, though." He set the eggs and milk on the worktop, then pulled a frying pan from the dish draining rack. 

John took a step back towards the bedroom. Sherlock could handle scrambled eggs, and while they definitely needed to have a private conversation, it didn't need to be right now. He didn't want to leave Eurus and the baby alone for too long. 

"Oh, hang on, that's Wiggins," Sherlock said, pulling his phone from his pocket in response to a faint buzz which sounded to John like the same tone he used for nearly everyone he texted. "He's just down the street. I'll go meet him downstairs. Don't really fancy him meeting Eurus right now."

"Or ever," John muttered, as Sherlock abandoned the eggs and frying pan and headed out of the flat. His instinct was to leave the culinary pursuits to Sherlock, but if he started cooking now, the eggs would be done that much sooner. He cracked two of them into the pan and dumped some milk on top of them. Scrambled, although he was sure Mrs. Holmes had taken more care in their preparation when she'd cooked for young Sherlock and Eurus.

As he turned on the hob, his own phone vibrated in his pocket and he remembered that he'd promised to keep Molly updated about what was happening with Eurus. He pulled it out and sure enough, she was calling. He lowered the flame a bit and turned away from the pan. "Molly, hi. Sorry I didn't get a chance to text you. Been a little busy here. How's Rosie doing?"

"She's great. We went to the park and watched the geese and then after dinner she was tired so I got out my old sleeping bag and pretended we were camping and now she's asleep on the floor of my bedroom. You can get her in the morning. How's everything going over there?"

"Fine. Everything's fine."

"Fine? John, really? What about Eurus? Is she actually there?"

"Er, yeah. She's here. She just had a baby girl. Seven pounds, six ounces. Named her Eve."

"Oh, God. That's...good? Isn't it? I mean, is the baby okay? Did Eurus, you know, try anything?"

"No, no. Nothing like that. And the baby's fine."

"Oh, that's great to hear, John. I was worried."

"Yeah, me, too. But so far everything has been okay." He shifted the phone against his cheek and turned to look down the hall towards the bedroom. "I should go, though, so I can check on her and make sure."

He said goodbye to Molly, ended the call and took a deep breath. It had only been a couple of minutes—Eurus and the baby were fine. They had to be. He walked back down the hall to the bedroom, treading softly with the noiseless movement he'd learned to use around babies shortly after Rosie was born.

He stopped when he reached the open doorway. Eurus was still in Sherlock’s bed, her eyes closed, flat on her back with her head slightly turned towards the cot, where Eve was asleep, as well. The pillowcase that John had swaddled her in was a little looser than it had been, but otherwise she looked just as she had before: a wrinkled, red-faced baby with a head full of fine, dark hair. John would have to show Eurus how to wrap her up tightly, once they got some proper baby blankets. Wait, would he? What were they going to do—let her leave with Eve? Have the two of them stay here in Sherlock's bedroom indefinitely?

He forced himself to stop thinking about it by looking around the room, trying to see if there was anything he needed to do in here before Eurus woke up and demanded her eggs. He'd cleaned up almost everything, but the sheets did still need to be changed. He couldn't see it with the top one pulled up to Eurus's chest, but he knew that the bottom sheet had been soaked through during delivery, and while it may have dried by now, there was blood on it. Blood. Not a lot, but enough. In John's mind it had merged with his memory of the walls of Sherrinford, painted the colour of dried blood during the middle of Eurus's torture games.

The bedroom suddenly felt too small, and the lingering scent of Eurus's blood and sweat turned his stomach. He pressed his lips together to stop himself from gagging, then turned and nearly ran from the room. 

Once he got to the kitchen, he made himself stop. Eurus was asleep in Sherlock's bed, not on a rampage through Sherrinford. He was safe. The baby was safe. He didn't know what was going to happen next, but they were all safe for now. 

He leaned both hands on the worktop next to the hob, where the eggs were just starting to cook. He watched them begin to bubble, then reached over and clicked off the gas to the burner. The smell of the half-cooked eggs was nearly as overpowering as the stench in the bedroom. He gritted his teeth together and stepped backwards towards the table, reaching behind himself for a chair. His fingers skittered against the edge of one, and then all the muscles in his body decided to stop working at once and he found himself sitting on the floor, his whole body shaking.

A few long seconds passed before he had the presence of mind to rest his head against his knees and make himself take slow, deep breaths. His thoughts were a whirl of chaos, so he found a starburst-shaped stain on the floor and made himself focus on it as he breathed, waiting for the panic to subside. 

His heart rate had slowed but he was still shaking when he heard Sherlock coming back up the stairs. He sat up straight, took another deep breath to try to collect himself, and managed to push himself up onto unsteady hands and knees just as Sherlock opened the door to the flat. 

Sherlock was talking as he walked through the door. "Wiggins got the nappies and everything else I asked for, plus a balloon bouquet, which I'm not exactly sure is Eurus's style, but I didn't want to disappoint him. Did you know he has a teenaged son?" He stepped into John's view, his arms full of carrier bags as well as a trio of helium-filled foil balloons. "He says he hasn't seen him in years, but he was there when—John?"

John made a noise that was supposed to be an acknowledgement that everything was fine and sat back on his feet, trying to act as if he had some reason for kneeling on the floor.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock came all the way into the kitchen and dropped the bags onto the table, letting the balloons drift up and bounce against the ceiling. "Did Eurus do something to you? To Eve? Is Eve all right?"

The admission that Sherlock didn't fully trust Eurus, either, offered John no comfort. He scrubbed a hand across his face and shook his head, looking at the stain on the floor rather than making eye contact. "They're fine. They're both asleep."

"So what's wrong? Why are you on the floor crying?"

"I'm not crying."

"Your face is bright red and you're shaking...oh. Panic attack?" 

John wanted nothing more than for him to go away, to stop looking at him and turn his attention to unpacking the items Wiggins had brought, or cooking the eggs, or anything other than watching while he struggled to pull himself together. 

Instead Sherlock dropped to his own knees in front of him and pulled him into an embrace. 

Sherlock's touch didn't stop the panic, but it did let John know that he wasn't being judged. He allowed Sherlock to wrap his arms around him, shifting until he could rest his head against Sherlock's shoulder as Sherlock gently stroked his back. He didn't try to explain what he felt, how he'd been able to hold back his memories of Sherrinford and his fear of Eurus while he'd delivered the baby but could no longer keep those things at bay. He didn't try to explain, but he was sure that Sherlock understood.

It wasn't the first time that Sherlock had silently held and comforted him. Wasn't the second time either. There'd been a small handful of other occasions in the past two years when he'd found himself overwhelmed by grief and the difficulty of raising Rosie on his own, and Sherlock had been there for him each time.

Now, even with Sherlock's arms around him, he couldn't stop shaking. Sherlock didn't shy away, though, just held him with the exact amount of pressure that he needed. John hated it: he hated that he needed to be held, and, if he was honest, hated that the only time they ever touched each other like this when one of them was upset beyond words. But most of all, he hated the shaking. The shuddering, full-body tremors that he could do nothing to control. Less because they were a symptom of the panic attack enveloping him than because they served as a reminder of the tremors that had ended his career as a surgeon. 

Despite his protests that he was not crying—he wasn't, or hadn't been—he made a small, blubbery sound. Sherlock's chin moved against the top of his head, and John made himself concentrate on the sensation, and on everything else he could physically feel—the sheen of Sherlock's shirt against his cheek and hand, the weight of Sherlock's arms atop his shoulders—anything other than the panic trying to destroy him. Eventually he felt the shaking begin to subside, and his thoughts cleared enough to allow him to speak. "Sorry, sorry. I—" 

"It's okay." Sherlock dropped his arms from around John's shoulders and sat back on his heels. "I understand. I was scared, too. Not of Eurus—I've been expecting her to show up here since she escaped—but of helping her deliver the baby. Of what I would do if you refused to come when I called."

John shook his head—Sherlock shouldn't have doubted that he would come—but he didn't have the energy to discuss that right now. He leaned back against the cabinet behind him and let out a long breath but made no effort to stand up yet. "Sherlock, what are we going to do?" 

"Do?" Sherlock got to his feet. "We're going to let Eurus and Eve sleep as long as possible, which in my understanding will only be a couple of hours. We'll eat these eggs that you started to make." He waved a hand towards the hob. "And then I'll make Eurus more if she still wants them when she wakes up. You should probably get some sleep, too. The bed in your old room is still made up from when you and Rosie stayed here last. I'm not tired yet, but if I am later tonight I'll kip on the sofa." 

John stared at him. "You know that's not what I mean. What are going to do...tomorrow? And the day after that? Just let Eurus take Eve and leave? Do you think she's capable of raising a baby on her own?" 

"I have no idea what she's capable of, John."

"Yeah, me neither. That's the problem. We can't let her go, Sherlock. We need to call Mycroft."

"No. We are not calling Mycroft. We can discuss it further in the morning. When Eurus is awake and rested. She should be able to have some say about her own future, don't you think?"

"She's an escaped murderer, Sherlock. She lost the right to have a say in her own future."

"She was imprisoned at the age of six. Do you think she got a fair trial? Or any trial?"

"She's killed people much more recently than that. You know she has. And even if we don't call Mycroft, we still need to let someone know a baby has been born. She needs a birth certificate, and Eurus should be checked out by a doctor who knows more about childbirth and its aftereffects than I do."

"I think you're underestimating your own skill as a physician. And I definitely know people—besides Mycroft—who can produce a birth certificate for us."

John continued to stare at him. He could think of a dozen more arguments, but Sherlock would have an answer to all of them, and he was exhausted. "All right. All right. We'll let her sleep for now, and figure it all out in the morning. But we have to talk about it then, and make some real decisions. We can't keep two people hidden in your bedroom forever."

"Hmm," Sherlock said, as if considering that as a possibility. He pushed himself away from the worktop he'd been leaning against and held out a hand to John.

John hesitated for only a moment before taking his outstretched hand and letting Sherlock help him get to his feet.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you as always to [Silvergirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silvergirl/pseuds/Silvergirl) and [Luthe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luthe/pseuds/Luthe) for their beta'ing expertise as I slowly, slowly write this fic!
> 
> CW for brief mention of suicide about halfway through this chapter.

John had spent many a restless night since he'd become a single father, but this was the first time in years that he'd lain awake here at Baker Street. On the few occasions he had spent the night here recently, Rosie had been with him, and he'd slept soundly knowing she was in the cot at his side while Sherlock roamed the flat beneath them. This time, he was alone in his old bedroom, straining his ears for any hint of what might be happening in the rooms below. He found himself wishing once again for the gun he no longer had, more for peace of mind than because he thought Eurus was actually going to climb the stairs and attack him while he slept. 

As the minutes and hours ticked by, he had to stop himself repeatedly from picking up his phone to text or call Mycroft. He had no doubt in his mind that Mycroft needed to know Eurus was here, but he still held out hope that he could bring Sherlock around to see that truth, rather than contacting Mycroft without his knowledge. He and Sherlock were on much firmer ground than they had been after Mary died, but John knew that Eurus meant enough to Sherlock that going against his wishes on this might be enough to damage their friendship. John didn't necessarily share Sherlock's belief that Eurus had changed for the better since Sherrinford, but since she’d just given birth and would likely take some time to recover physically, he didn't think she posed any immediate danger. At least, he was pretty sure she didn't, though that didn't make it any easier for him to sleep knowing she was in the room below him.

Shortly before dawn, he heard Eve crying, the thin, helpless wail of a new-born, but it lasted for only a few moments. Part of him wanted to run downstairs and find out how Eurus had managed to quiet her, but he knew that if Eve had just gone back to sleep, he might disturb her again. After a brief debate with himself, he reached across the bedside table and grabbed his phone so he could send a text to Sherlock. Just a casual inquiry: _Everything okay down there?_

Sherlock texted back less than a minute later. _Meconium. Under control now._

John grinned at his phone and set it back down again, sliding it to the far side of the table to make it harder to give in to the temptation to message Mycroft. He wasn't sure if Sherlock or Eurus had already known the word for a baby's first bowel movement or if they'd had to google it, but it did indeed sound as if they had everything under control. He slept for a while after that, and more soundly than he'd expected. If it hadn't taken him so long to fall asleep to begin with, he might have suspected Sherlock—or Eurus—of drugging him, but he knew he'd just been exhausted enough—mentally and emotionally, if not physically—to finally sleep. 

He awoke to the dull grey light of a London morning and an almost overpowering urge to leave immediately so he could go and get Rosie. He'd spent a few nights apart from her, twice on cases with Sherlock and once last autumn when he'd gone to a medical conference and she'd stayed here at Baker Street, but now he missed her much more than he had either of those times. As soon as he checked to make sure everyone downstairs had survived the night, and talked to Sherlock about what they were going to do next, he would go and pick her up from Molly's. He could make it a special day for the two of them together. Maybe ice cream and a trip to the park, if the rain held off.

He got dressed in yesterday's clothes, intending to creep down the stairs as quietly as possible so as not to wake anyone who might still be asleep, but as soon as he opened the door to the stairwell, he heard footsteps coming up. Mrs. Hudson, on her way to pay Sherlock her usual morning visit. John ran down the flight of stairs as fast as he could, but she had a head start and got to Sherlock's door before he did. 

"Mrs. Hudson," he gasped, and inserted himself next to her, one hand on the doorframe, ready to stop her if she tried to go into the flat. 

"Oh, John, good morning. I thought you might be here." Mrs. Hudson turned to him. "I was just coming up to see how much tea to brew. I knew I heard Rosie last night. Screaming at four o'clock in the morning—was she feeling ill? I haven't heard her wail like that since she was a baby."

"Er, no. She wasn't—"

"If she's feeling better, I can run down to Speedy's and see if they have those tarts she likes so much. If you don't mind her having sugar for breakfast, that is. I know you try to be healthy with her." 

John forced a smile as she tittered—he knew she indulged Rosie's sweet tooth much more than he liked when she watched her, but that wasn't high on his list of concerns right now. "I'm not planning on staying long enough for breakfast. I was just about to check in with Sherlock and then I'll be off." 

"Oh, let me come in with you, then. I can't let little Rosie leave without seeing her!"

"Rosie's not here," he said, and tried to wedge himself further in between Mrs. Hudson and the door. "She spent the night at Molly's."

"But I heard her crying in the middle of the night."

"Yeah, no. That wasn't Rosie you heard." He gave her another tight smile and tried to subtly back her away from the door. 

"I definitely heard a baby crying," she said. "It went on for a few minutes. I didn't take anything for my hip last night so I was awake and I know what I heard. I was about to come up here and see what was wrong with her when she finally stopped." She gave him a puzzled look and proceeded to push past him to open the door to Sherlock's flat. 

Short of physically holding her back, there was no way for John to stop her. He settled for following immediately behind her, ready to intervene in whatever was about to happen inside the flat. He saw Sherlock pop up from his chair when the door opened, then relax and drop back into it a moment later. 

"Oh, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said, as she and John entered the flat. "You haven't met my sister, have you?" He waved a casual hand towards the sofa, where Eurus, wearing Sherlock's oldest dressing gown, lay stretched out with the baby asleep on her chest. "This is Eurus, and the little one she's holding is my new niece, Eve." 

"Oh, how lovely!" Mrs. Hudson clapped her hands together once and stepped closer to the sofa, then stopped. "Wait a minute. Your sister? Isn't she the one who—?"

Sherlock bounded up from his chair and across the room. "Eurus has just had a baby, Mrs. Hudson. They both need their rest. Come on, let's get you back downstairs." He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and tried to guide her towards the door.

She shook free of his embrace. "No, your sister is the one who blew up my kitchen! And this flat!" She managed to add a full complement of hissing venom to the words while keeping them low enough so as not to disturb Eve. 

Eurus's eyes tracked from Mrs. Hudson to Sherlock and back again, but she displayed no other reaction at all. 

"Now, we've all made mistakes in our lives, haven't we, Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock said. "You wouldn't like it if everyone you met held your past against you, would you?"

"Do you have any idea how much it cost to rebuild this building? She's supposed to be in prison! Why isn't she in prison? Why is she sitting on your sofa with a baby instead of sitting in prison, Sherlock?"

John lowered his chin and raised his eyebrows. He'd expected to have this argument this morning; he just hadn't thought Mrs. Hudson would be the one to start it for him.

"You can't have a baby in prison," Sherlock said. "Well, I suppose you could, but it wouldn't be ideal. But she came here to give birth, instead."

"She gave birth...in this flat? Sherlock!"

"Don't worry, she had a very fine doctor attending to her." 

Mrs. Hudson glanced at John and then turned back to Eurus. Rather than cowering in front of her, which John would have done in her place, Mrs. Hudson puffed herself up and spoke as if Eurus wasn't even in the room. "And now that she's had the baby, she'll be going back to prison. Right, Sherlock?" 

Eurus's fingers curled slightly where they were splayed atop Eve's tiny back, and a slow smile bloomed across her face as she looked past Mrs. Hudson and John to meet Sherlock's eyes. 

Sherlock didn't reply other than to take Mrs. Hudson by the shoulders again and gently but firmly lead her to the door. 

"I'll not have a criminal living under my roof!" Mrs. Hudson’s voice rose towards a shout, and John glanced nervously towards the still-sleeping Eve. 

"That ship sailed years ago, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said. "I think we all know that."

"Oh, but all of your more serious crimes have been justified," she said, squirming beneath his grasp until she could reach up to pat his cheek.

Sherlock pulled away from her so she couldn't touch his face. "Who said I was referring to myself?"

"Oh, Sherlock. I do hope you know what you're doing," she said as he ushered her out of the flat and closed the door behind her.

John breathed a small sigh of relief when she was gone. Mrs. Hudson was too vulnerable a target if Eurus decided she'd had enough of playing the innocent new mother. 

"She seems lovely, Sherlock," Eurus said. "Reminds me of Mummy."

Sherlock stalked back across the room and flopped down into his chair without replying. 

John glanced over at his own chair, but found himself gravitating towards the sofa instead. He'd come down here hoping to speak to Sherlock privately, but the presence of Eve triggered some fatherly instinct in him and he was compelled to gaze at her, first. "She certainly seems content, doesn't she?" he said to Eurus, smiling down at the sleeping baby on her chest. "Just make sure that you don't put her down to sleep on her stomach like that in her cot, all right?"

"I know," Eurus said, and shifted her hands so they nearly covered Eve completely before looking up to fix John with a stare.

"Okay." He didn't let himself flinch away from her gaze. "I know Sherlock said she had a dirty nappy in the night—that's good. Has she been eating for you?"

"I tried nursing her a few times, but it didn't work. Sherlock's more patient with her than I am. He got her to take a bottle before she fell asleep just now."

"Good, that's good," he said, and hoped she took that as approval for the fact that Eve had eaten, not that Sherlock was better at parenting than she was. He still wasn't convinced she was going to be able to function as a parent, though her trouble getting Eve to nurse immediately was fairly common for new mothers. He turned around and looked at Sherlock. "How much did she drink? Did you keep track?"

"Of course I did, John. Relax. Eve is doing fine. She's a Holmes. We can thrive under any conditions."

"Right." He wanted to grab Sherlock by the arm and pull him into the kitchen so they could chat, but instead his eyes were drawn again to Eve, who continued to sleep contentedly on her mother's chest, oblivious to the awkward tension engulfing the adults in the room around her.

"I'm not going back to prison," Eurus said, and kissed the top of Eve's head. "By the way. In case that was unclear in either of your minds."

"We're not sending you back to prison," Sherlock said. 

"I—" John began, and then closed his mouth. He knew he couldn't win any sort of argument with Sherlock and Eurus united against him, but they also couldn't stop him from calling Mycroft on his own. He just needed to decide if it was worth risking his friendship with Sherlock. It would be much better if he could just talk to him alone and try to convince him to see reason. 

He crossed the room to stand next to his old armchair and started to sort through the stack of mail that had piled up next to it, stopping to glance meaningfully at Sherlock every few seconds. He knew Sherlock would be able to read the question on his face. _Why? Why are you helping her hide?_

Sherlock stared back at him, then looked away, not at Eurus and the baby but at something beyond John's shoulder, presumably the closed door to the landing. "Mycroft locked her up for life, based on her actions when she was a child. Yes, she's killed people. But we all have blood on our hands, Mycroft perhaps most of all, even if he's never pulled a trigger. And Eurus saved my life."

John couldn't stop his snort of disbelief. "When did she save your life?" Not killing him at Sherrinford could hardly be considered saving his life, even by Sherlock's standards.

"After I shot Magnussen, Mycroft sent me to die in Eastern Europe. Eurus saved me."

"How did she—oh. The video of Moriarty. That was Eurus who did that?" At the time, John had thought it had been Mycroft or Sherlock himself, or perhaps even Mary's doing; he'd never made the connection to Eurus, though of course now that he knew she had met with Moriarty, it made sense. 

"Yes, of course it was."

"Sherlock had just shot an international media mogul in cold blood," Eurus said, her voice more animated than it had been a few moments ago. "Turns out he was much more interesting than Mycroft had ever let on. I couldn't let him die before I got the chance to talk to him."

Sherlock smiled, very close to a real one. "Curiosity. It must run in the family."

"But she was willing to let you die at Sherrinford."

"Oh, no," Eurus said. "Not Sherlock."

"Right." John crossed his arms over his chest. "You only wanted me and Mycroft to die."

Her smile was still terrifying, even with Eve inches away to soften it. "Lucky for you that Sherlock played the game well enough to save you both."

Sherlock leaned forward in his chair, catching John's attention once more. "She stopped me from killing myself. When she wanted me to choose one of you to die and I didn't." 

John turned back to Sherlock and frowned. "Yeah, but you weren't really going to kill yourself. You were just trying to get her to stop playing games."

"I was ready to do it. I didn't know what else I could do, and I thought we were all going to die anyway." Sherlock's brow wrinkled and he looked across the room at Eurus. "You...Faith. She had a gun in her handbag. I deduced that she—Faith—intended to kill herself with it. But she wasn't...that wasn't her. That was you. Eurus, were you planning to kill yourself that night?"

Eurus scowled at him. "You were off your head on drugs that night. Your memories aren't reliable."

"Eurus. What were you going to do if I wasn't interesting enough when you finally got to meet me as an adult?" Sherlock held her gaze from across the room.

She stared back at him, face blank, until Eve began to squirm in her sleep atop her chest. She blinked and looked down at the baby, stroking her hand across the back of the yellow romper she wore. "The two of you are making us uncomfortable. We need some time apart from you." She sat up, moving gingerly as she adjusted her grip on Eve so she could heave herself up to standing. 

John could tell that it was painful for her to walk even the short distance across the living room, but he made himself refrain from offering any assistance as she passed by him. She made her way slowly through the kitchen and down the hallway, then disappeared into the bedroom with Eve. 

"Sherlock." John turned to him, biting his bottom lip, knowing how their conversation was about to proceed but determined to try anyway. 

Sherlock looked back at him, lips pressed together, his expression not nearly as blank as Eurus's had been. John closed his eyes briefly and then walked around to the front of his armchair to sit across from him.

Without discussing it, they both pulled their chairs closer until they were virtually touching, each leaning forward to speak in hushed tones. John could almost savour the long-familiar sensation of sitting close as they worked through a difficult problem together. But this wasn't a case, and he doubted that even Sherlock's genius was likely to come up with a satisfying solution to their current dilemma. 

"Sherlock," he began again. He was close enough to smell Sherlock's sweat—he was still wearing the clothes he'd had on yesterday, and his hair was uncombed and flattened on one side.

"I'm not sending her back to Sherrinford."

"What are you going to do? Just let her take the baby and leave?"

"She's given no indication that she intends to do that."

"So, what? She's just going to stay here? You're going to live here with Eurus and an infant?"

Sherlock shrugged and leaned back in his chair, putting distance between them again. He spread his hands in the air, palms up. "For the time being, at least. Who knows what the future may hold?"

John sighed in frustration and leaned back in his own chair, but kept his voice to a whisper. "Even if...even if we don't tell Mycroft," he said, making sure to emphasise the word "we" so Sherlock would know they were in this together. "He's going to find out about it eventually. He probably has cameras recording us right now." 

"He does not."

"Are you sure about that?" He shot a sideways glance towards the mirror over the mantel.

"Yes." Sherlock pulled his feet in so he was sitting more compactly in his chair. "After...after Sherrinford. After it came out, everything that Mycroft had done to hide Eurus from me and our parents and to keep her locked up there, we had a number of...family discussions. He no longer monitors me as he used to, you can be assured of that."

John could tell Sherlock believed what he was saying, just as he could tell that he wasn't going to be able to change his mind, no matter what he said. When had he ever won a serious argument with Sherlock, anyway? He blew out a breath, slumping deeper into his chair for a moment, then straightened, pushing himself up to his feet.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm going to check on Eurus."

"You don't have to keep checking on her. She's not going to—"

"Sherlock, she gave birth yesterday. If she'd been in hospital, she'd have doctors and nurses monitoring her to make sure she's all right. I'm just doing my job." 

"She's not your job."

"Yeah, she is. For right now, at least. You called me to help you as a doctor and I'm seeing that through, and then I'm done. Okay?" He dragged his chair back to its usual position, several feet away from Sherlock's, and headed off towards the bedroom.

As he walked down the hall, he swallowed back a small jot of fear—not anywhere near what he'd felt yesterday when he'd arrived, but he supposed he'd never be able to approach Eurus without some trepidation, especially not when he was alone. 

She hadn't closed the bedroom door. Which meant she might have been able to hear him and Sherlock talking, despite their attempts to be quiet. In any event, he was sure she already knew what he thought about her being here. He squared his shoulders and rapped on the doorframe, though he could see her sitting on the bed, Eve still cradled peacefully in her arms. 

She looked up at the sound and fixed him with a gaze that he had to keep himself from squirming under. "Fascinating," she said, after a moment. "You're still afraid of me, but it doesn't keep you from doing what you think you need to do."

"I'm not afraid of you," he said, and clasped his hands behind his back, pretending that he believed what he'd said. At least he didn't think she could physically overpower him right now, and she no longer had a prison full of guards to do her bidding. He cleared his throat. He was Dr. Watson, again. "How are you feeling?" 

She looked back down at Eve, seeming to dismiss him, but then said, "I have piles." 

"Oh." John had certainly heard worse from many patients. "Yes, well, haemorrhoids are common during pregnancy and childbirth. They should clear up fairly quickly, and there are various ointments to make them less painful." 

Eurus wriggled the little finger on her left hand, testing the grip of the tiny fist Eve had wrapped around it. "I can see why Sherlock likes you."

John didn't respond, unsure of why Eurus thought his knowledge of treatments for piles would make Sherlock like him. 

"You're very brave, and quite competent in the limited skills you have."

John pursed his lips and resolved to ignore anything she said that wasn't related to her or Eve's health and well-being. "Have you had any unusually heavy bleeding or very large blood clots pass since yesterday?"

Eurus shook her head, then spread her legs and blinked up at him. "Will you need to examine me again today, Dr. Watson?" She was wearing a pair of very baggy boxer shorts beneath Sherlock's much-too-large dressing gown and holding Eve against her chest, yet she somehow made it sound like one of the filthiest come-ons John had ever had directed at him. 

It was also one of the least tempting. "That won't be necessary. We'll just get a blood pressure reading and as long as it's not too high, you should be fine." 

She crossed her legs atop the bed again. "You try very hard to do what's right, don't you?"

He'd done plenty of things that weren't right, but he didn't need Eurus to hear his confession about any of that. God knew he'd already told her enough while she was pretending to be his therapist. 

He went into the loo to retrieve his medical kit. When he came back out, Eurus had put Eve down in the cot next to the bed and was sitting on the edge of the mattress, holding her arm out to the side, the picture of a cooperative patient. As he fastened the blood pressure cuff around her arm, she kept talking. "It's good that you'll stand up to him, even when you know you can't win. Sherlock needs someone like that."

"Stop talking or the reading I get won't be accurate." 

"And here I thought he just liked your pretty eyes," she said, and then pressed her lips closed with a smile.

He took a step back from the bed. "Why are you—"

"He's my brother." She shrugged. "I like getting to know him, trying to understand how he thinks. And you're a big part of what he thinks about, it appears."

He gritted his teeth together and approached the bed again, raising the stethoscope. "I really would like to get a blood pressure reading, now." 

She wrinkled her nose at him but stayed silent and let him take her blood pressure. When he was done, she asked, "Will I survive, Doctor?"

"You're fine. A little lower than yesterday, right in the middle of average."

"Average." Eurus laughed. "You are delightful. Sherlock should be careful, though. After all, you cheated on your wife, didn't you? With me." She laughed again, longer this time. "Oh, if only I really were a therapist, I could unpack all the meanings in that."

John wadded the blood pressure cuff and stethoscope together in his hands and stuffed them into his med kit. He didn't know how she'd been able to deduce what he thought were his well-hidden feelings for Sherlock—how could a true sociopath read other people so well? He'd had many years to grow accustomed to the fact that he and Sherlock could be good friends and nothing more, and most of the time it was something he could live with. But in the space of a day, while she should have been highly distracted, Eurus had managed to figure out that the best way to hurt him would be to insinuate that Sherlock also wanted more. Well, he wasn't going to stick around and let her taunt him like that. Sherlock had asked for his help and he'd given it. He was done here. He snapped his kit shut and picked it up, turning on his heel to leave the room. As soon as he was out of this flat, he was going to call Mycroft and tell him what was going on. Sherlock might be angry for a little while, but he'd forgive him eventually. Probably. He always had before, at least, and he'd have to understand why they couldn't keep this a secret.

"Are you leaving so soon?" Eurus called after him. "We were just getting to know each other."

He held his hand up in a caricature of a wave goodbye, not letting himself glance back at the cot on his way out of the room. Eve was asleep and Eurus wasn't going to hurt her. 

Sherlock was still sitting in his chair in the living room. John assumed he hadn't moved at all since he'd left, though he did look up questioningly now.

John shook his head. "She's fine. They're both fine. I don't think you need me here any longer, and I should really go get Rosie from Molly's—"

"On the contrary," Sherlock said. "I always need you here. I can always use your assistance, and—"

"John!" Eurus's voice rang out through the flat. She stepped into view on the far side of the kitchen. "I don't suppose you have any spare trousers that you've left here in Sherlock's flat, do you? I'm going to be swimming in his." She held up a pair of grey jogging bottoms; in her other hand she clutched a dark blue t-shirt.

"No, I—" John cut himself off before he could offer to run out to the shops and buy her something to wear. His obligation to help had ended. "No. Sorry."

She shrugged and tucked Sherlock's clothes under one arm. "I'll make do, I suppose. I'm going to have a shower now. The two of you will keep an eye on Eve for me. Oh, and change the sheets on my bed. They're filthy. That's no way to treat a guest." She turned and walked back down the hallway before either of them could respond.

"Did she really show up here without a change of clothes or anything with her at all?" John asked, realising that he hadn't seen any sort of bag belonging to Eurus in the bedroom. "Where was she staying before she came here? She doesn't seem like she's been living rough."

"I've no idea," Sherlock said. "Haven't really had much time to chat with her, what with her spending all her time giving birth and sleeping." He rose up from his seat. "I don't have any more clean sheets in the flat. You go strip the bed and I'll borrow some from Mrs. Hudson."

"What—no. I'm leaving, I just told you."

"Yes, but I didn't believe you. You'll stay. Molly doesn't mind watching Rosie for a little longer."

John glared at him, his jaw working as he tried to come up with a rebuttal, then he threw up his hands. "Fine. I'll help you change the sheets and then I'm going home." He dropped his med kit on the desk by the window, then turned and stalked back down the hall, into the bedroom, softening immediately when he saw Eve asleep in the cot. 

He stood over the cot and took a few deep breaths, letting the peaceful sight of the baby and the steady sound of the water running in the bathroom calm him. A few minutes without Eurus. Good. He could hear feet pounding down the stairs as Sherlock went to procure clean sheets, so he began to pull the dirty ones from the bed. The blood stains weren't too bad; there were a few spots on the mattress pad but nothing had soaked through to the mattress itself. And he could certainly think of worse circumstances that would involve Eurus leaving a blood-stained mess in Sherlock's flat.

He tossed the bloody sheets towards the doorway, then stood by Eve's cot again while he waited for Sherlock to return. The urge to pick her up and nuzzle her was strong, but he knew better than to disturb a sleeping infant, no matter how cute she was.

Sherlock came back with a set of sheets and pillowcases—floral print but freshly laundered—and they set to work remaking the bed, working as smoothly together as they always had, even if this task was rather more domestic than their usual specialties. Eve woke up before they were finished, and they jostled each other to be the first to pick her up. Sherlock won, and John grinned as he watched him lift her to his shoulder and begin to sway, whispering to her as he moved. She whimpered briefly, then her head lolled against his shoulder as she fell asleep again.

"Erm," Sherlock said, and turned from the cot to the bed and back again before treading carefully across the room and lowering himself into the chair in the corner, holding his upper body still so Eve wouldn't be disturbed.

"We should get you a rocking chair," John said, and then blinked in astonishment at the fact that he was apparently mentally preparing for Eve and Eurus to stay in the flat. "If Eurus does end up staying, I mean." Which she wouldn't, because he was going to call Mycroft in a few minutes. He wrinkled his nose and turned away. "She's been in that shower quite a while. Maybe we should check on her?" 

Sherlock nodded and raised his eyebrows, indicating with a glance that John should take on that task, given that he was busy holding a sleeping child. 

John sighed and stepped around the bed to the bathroom door. The frosted glass was steamed, making it even harder to see through than it normally was, but he could still hear the water running. He rapped on the door, loud enough to be heard over the water, but she didn't reply. "Eurus?" he called, after a second knock also produced no answer. He glanced over at Sherlock, who was still sitting with Eve but now held himself tense, as if ready to spring to his feet. John swallowed and turned back to the door. "Eurus, are you all right? I'm opening the door now, please answer me."

He turned the knob and cracked open the door a few centimetres. "Eurus? You okay?" He heard nothing beyond the steady drum of water hitting the porcelain tub. He pushed the door open all the way, blinking through the steam.

"Eurus?" he said again, but softly this time, because he could see that there was no one standing in the tub behind the white curtain that was drawn shut around it. He took two steps across the room and pulled the curtain back anyway, then leaned in to shut off the water pouring into the empty tub. "Sherlock!" he shouted. "She's gone!"

Sherlock was there before John even finished yelling, crowding into the small bathroom, still holding Eve in his arms. "How can she be gone?" He turned his head rapidly, scanning the tiny room as if Eurus may have found someplace to hide, then shifted Eve to his shoulder and yanked open the second door that led into the hall. "Did you see or hear anything while I was downstairs?"

"No! Just you running down and then back upstairs. Did you see her leave?"

"Of course I didn't."

"Really?" John stared at him, wondering if Sherlock would have helped her slip out of the flat.

"I didn't," Sherlock repeated, and held John's stare. 

John thought he believed him, but it didn't matter. Eurus was gone. "Okay, well. She can't have got very far. You could tell from how she was walking that she's still in a fair amount of pain. So let's—" He paused at Sherlock's sharp intake of breath. "What's wrong?"

"Take her." Sherlock thrust Eve towards him, and John took her without question, knowing by the way that Sherlock had suddenly gone even paler than usual that something was wrong beyond Eurus's disappearance. Eve blinked open her eyes as she was handed off, her face wrinkling in displeasure.

John stepped out of the way, rocking Eve in his arms as Sherlock pulled open the medicine cabinet over the sink and began to paw through it. "Paracetamol, ibuprofen, a new toothbrush, laxatives...."

"What are you—"

"Things she's taken. Those are fine, but—" Sherlock twirled abruptly away from the medicine cabinet and pushed past John, running back into the bedroom. He pulled the nightstand out from the wall and dropped to his knees, then pried a section of the baseboard off with his fingers. "Gone."

John could see a shallow rectangle had been carved into the plaster of the wall, a nook that would be completely hidden when the baseboard was in place. "What...Sherlock. What's gone? What did you have?"

"No opiates, if that's what you're concerned about." He sat back on his heels but didn't look up at John. 

John's stomach tried to curl in on itself. Sherlock had drugs hidden in his flat. While he'd been babysitting Rosie over the past year. "Tell me what you had."

"Cocaine. A small amount. That's it. I swore off hallucinogens after the Culverton Smith case."

John closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The scent of Eve in his arms, not clean but pure and natural and real, grounded him. He shifted her higher on his shoulder. "You're saying that Eurus stole your cocaine and then took off. I know you think she's changed, but what do you think she's capable of doing when she's high?"

Sherlock, still on his knees on the floor, hesitated, then shook his head. "No, she wouldn't get high. She thinks it's polluting herself—she's like Mycroft in that. Probably because they drugged her into a stupor half the time she was at Sherrinford. And since I didn't have anything strong for her pain, she probably...." He reached out to the nightstand and leaned on it as he pulled himself to his feet, then strode past John again, back into the loo. "She probably—yes." He lifted the lid to the toilet, pointing.

John couldn't see anything out of the ordinary, but Sherlock said, "She flushed it. There's a bit of white residue on the side there." He reached for a tissue and wiped off the rim of the bowl. For a split second, John was sure he was going to try to snort the powder from the tissue, but instead he dropped it into the toilet and flushed it away. 

John took another deep breath and looked up at Sherlock, the weight of the baby in his arms helping to keep him calm. "Okay. Well. Eurus has run away and left her child behind but at least she's not high. Now do you think it's time for us to call your brother?"


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for brief mentions of drug use (beginning of chapter) and short discussion of suicide (end of chapter). Wait, is parentlock supposed to be fluffy? There's a lot of cute baby holding in between.

Sherlock went out onto the landing to call Mycroft, and John missed most of the conversation, because Eve started to fuss and quickly became loud enough to overcome his best attempts at eavesdropping. He took her into the bedroom and set her down in her cot, then rolled the whole thing out into the living room, so she would be nearby while he got a bottle ready. It would be a lot easier if they had a reclining swing or something similar to put her in—they'd have to get one if she was going to be here for any length of time. In fact, they would need to get quite a few more things for her. Babies might not need anything fancy to survive, but a few choice accessories sure made it easier on their parents. 

"How can someone as tiny as you cause so much work, hmm, Eve?" John picked her up, cooing softly because he knew what he said to her was meaningless as long as he used the right tone. He settled in his chair with her tucked in the crook of his arm and gave her the bottle he had prepared. She took it easily enough, drinking enthusiastically for several minutes until her eyes began to drift shut and the nipple slipped from her mouth, sending a tiny splatter of milk spraying across his shoulder. He smiled down at her and eased the bottle away, brushing at his shirt collar with one finger—they didn't even have any proper muslin squares to use for burping her.

He looked up as Sherlock came back inside. "Hey, can you get me a handkerchief or flannel? We don't have any—"

"Not now, need to shower!" Sherlock strode past him with barely a glance.

"Sure, all right, no problem. I'll just take care of this little sweetie all on my own." John looked down at her to see that her eyes were still fluttering, not quite asleep. "Don't worry. He's not ignoring you on purpose. It's just because he had to talk to Mycroft. Uncle Mycroft." And Mycroft must be on his way here now. Sherlock was undoubtedly having a shower so he could present his best face to him when he arrived. Understandable. Mycroft was going to be furious.

John put Eve back in her cot, then dug through the cupboard in the hallway in search of the softest flannel he could find, while mentally listing more items they should get for her. Some gentle soap, a bathtub to fit into the sink—how long was she going to be here? Was Eurus going to come back? His gut told him no, though he supposed anything was possible, especially when the Holmes family was involved. 

Eve squealed in protest as he gently wiped her face and neck clean with a bit of warm water. She managed to grab the flannel with one hand, though bringing it to her mouth proved to require more coordination than she had, which made her squeal even louder. He tugged the cloth out of her grip and picked her up again, whispering softly and rocking to soothe her. She quieted as soon as he lifted her—she did enjoy being held, it seemed. He slow-danced her around the living room a few times, then sat down in his chair when his back began to object. He was still tired from having only a few hours of sleep last night, but the relief he felt now that Eurus was gone and no longer an immediate threat made exhaustion seem a small price to pay.

Sherlock came out of the shower dressed in a blue suit, looking as elegant as he ever did, though John was quite certain he hadn't slept much last night, either. He plucked Eve from John's arms and dropped down into his own chair, holding her close to his chest. 

"Her hair is damp—did you give her a bath?"

"Just wiped her with a warm flannel. She won't have a real bath until her umbilical cord falls off, probably in a week or so."

"She smells so good. You smell so good, don't you little Eve?" Sherlock tipped his head down and kissed the top of her head. "Even mean old Uncle Mycroft is going to love the way you smell." 

John watched him, unable to deny the appeal of Sherlock's soft expression as he gazed down at her, or the allure of his hands, so large that he could nearly cradle her entire body in just one of them. A few years ago, John wouldn't have been able to imagine Sherlock looking so at ease with a baby in his hands, much less cooing about how good she smelled, but now it seemed second nature to him. They had Rosie to thank for that, and the fact that Sherlock had spent almost as much time with her over the past year as John had. Except...now John had reason to suspect that he may have made a mistake in asking Sherlock to look after Rosie, didn't he? "Sherlock. You need to tell me. Have you ever been high while you were minding Rosie?"

"What? No." Sherlock looked up and met his eyes. "Of course not. I swear to you, I would never do that."

John stared at him for a moment, then slowly nodded. "All right." In the past, Sherlock had never made it a secret when he was using and John knew he wouldn't endanger Rosie on purpose. But he was still an addict, and John wasn't sure if he'd ever be able to trust him completely when it came to matters of drugs. "But you did have cocaine—what, was it in a plastic bag?—hidden in your wall at a height a crawling baby could easily reach."

"I've never let her play in my room. You know that. The kitchen and hallway are always blocked off when she's here."

"Yes, but there's still a risk, even if it's very small."

Sherlock paused and looked down at Eve again before speaking softly. "I'm sorry. I didn't think about that. I just needed...."

"What? You needed cocaine? I thought you were clean."

"I am clean. I am. I have been since...." He waved his free hand between them where they sat in their chairs and John nodded an acknowledgement. "What I kept hidden in my bedroom was just...a safety net."

"In case you really needed to get high."

"No. Yes. No. I wasn't going to use it. But if I ever got really desperate, if something happened to put me back in that place where I really couldn't resist, I needed to have something here in the flat. A small, reasonable amount that I could easily access. Because otherwise, I would.... Who knows what might happen. Something worse."

John watched him for a moment, as Sherlock fiddled with one of the snaps that ran down the side of Eve's romper. "You can't—you can't have drugs in the flat, Sherlock. Not if you want Rosie to be here. And Eve." He wasn't even sure what he meant by that. Did he think Sherlock was going to keep Eve here by himself, with Eurus gone? Where would she go if she didn't stay here?

Sherlock nodded. "I know. I know. I'll...figure something else out." He spread his hand out over Eve's stomach, covering her from feet to neck, and looked up at John again. "I'm sorry."

John didn't respond. He wasn't sure if Sherlock was apologising for having that particular bag of cocaine in the flat or for something for something else, something deeper, but he didn't have the time or energy to start a bigger conversation at the moment. "Right. So. When is your brother getting here?" At least he wouldn't have to tell Mycroft about the drugs, since Eurus had flushed them and he believed Sherlock when he said he hadn't been high since the Culverton Smith case.

Sherlock shifted Eve onto his right shoulder and glanced at his watch. "Soon. Oh, God. I changed my mind. Mycroft can't find out about her. You have to take her away before he gets here." He pulled Eve off his shoulder so abruptly that she blurted a sharp cry of surprise. "Go. Now. Hurry."

"Wait, what? What do you mean he can't find out about her? Didn't you tell him about her when you called him?"

"No." He lowered Eve to his lap. "I just said that Eurus had been here and left." 

"You—Christ, Sherlock. Eurus is out there on the loose again and you have a day-old baby in your flat. You have to tell Mycroft what's going on."

"He can't—Mycroft can't know about Eve." 

"What—Sherlock. She's a baby. How are you possibly going to keep her a secret? Even if he's not watching the flat, he might notice when you go out to buy formula or he comes to visit and there are baby bottles in the kitchen sink." 

"Take her and claim she's yours." 

"Sherlock. She has your eyes. She'll probably end up the spitting image of you."

"But he can't—John." Sherlock's face was as earnest as John had ever seen it, as if he honestly thought he could hide an entire human being from Mycroft for the next 18 years or so, until she was off on her own. "Mycroft can't take Eve. He can't. I won't let him."

"Take Eve—" John's thoughts stuttered. "Why would he try to take her?"

"Why wouldn't he? She's Eurus's child. And he's kept Eurus locked up since she was a child herself."

"He's not going to take her and lock her up, Sherlock. She's an infant." Though now that he thought about it, he wasn't sure what Mycroft would do. "You—you plan to keep her yourself? Permanently?"

"I—" Sherlock swallowed, and John watched whatever doubts he may have had evaporate as his expression cleared. "Yes. Of course I do. She's my family." 

"She's Mycroft's family, too."

Sherlock met his eyes for a long moment, then shook his head. "No. I won't let him take her."

John hesitated for only a moment before deciding. "Okay. Mycroft does need to know what's going on, but when he finds out, I won't let him take Eve from you." He held Sherlock's gaze until Sherlock nodded, then they both looked down at the baby who had fallen back to sleep on his lap. John's stomach flipped—not with fear but excitement, and a newfound resolve. With Eurus out of the picture, hopefully for good, he had no qualms about Sherlock keeping and raising her baby.

Sherlock put Eve down in the cot again and John found a notepad on the desk so he could start making a list of items he thought they should get if Sherlock planned to keep her here in the flat. He knew he still had some baby stuff in the crawl space at home. Mary had been pretty organised about putting things away as Rosie outgrew them back in those early days. There were definitely a lot of clothes, though he wasn't sure what else they might have kept. He hadn't got very far with the list when the doorbell rang.

Sherlock turned away from watching Eve sleep and crossed to the open front window. "Are you alone?" he shouted out through the screen.

Mycroft's answering shout was not as loud as Sherlock's, but still clearly audible. "There are two dozen of my men searching the streets surrounding your flat, but I'm the only one who will enter yours, as we agreed on the phone. Now let me in before I have to break down this door."

"I'd like to see you try!"

"No, no you really wouldn't." John dropped his pen and notepad and headed for the stairs before Sherlock and Mycroft could escalate their yelling match. Later he'd have to remind Sherlock that screaming out a window, which was rarely a good practice, was an even worse idea when there was a baby asleep in the flat. 

Mycroft straightened up and pulled his jacket closed when John opened the door—maybe he really had been preparing to try to break it down. 

"That's a good way to hurt yourself," John told him. "You know this door was reinforced in the renovation."

Mycroft sniffed and raised his nose in the air. "Not sure why I ever gave up my keys to this building. Especially after Eurus escaped again. I should have known she would come straight here."

"Straight here." John snorted. "She broke out of prison over nine months ago, Mycroft, in case you didn't notice."

"Oh, I noticed." He followed John into the building. "Trust me, I've had my people looking for her every minute of that time. We did focus on Sherlock, in the beginning, since he had made a connection with her during their violin sessions and I thought she might try to make contact, but as time went by, it seemed she must have left the country. If she's been in London all this time, she did a very good job of hiding whatever she was up to, because we found no trace of her at all."

"Well, I know some of what she was up to, at least." He jogged up the stairs ahead of Mycroft.

"Why didn't he call me immediately? Did you know she was here, John? Why didn't you call me? You, at least, should know better."

John paused on the landing outside the flat. "I wanted to. I did. But...it was complicated. You'll see. Come on in. Try to be quiet, in case she's asleep."

"What—who? I thought Eurus left. That's what Sherlock said on the phone. Has she come back? Is she—"

John opened the door to the flat and held his arm out, motioning Mycroft to enter ahead of him.

Mycroft gave him a brief frown before stepping past him, then stopped dead just inside the doorway. "What is that?"

Sherlock was once more sitting calmly in his armchair, all traces of the panic he'd exhibited a few moments ago seemingly gone. He'd pulled the cot up close next to him, and Eve lay on her back in it, quiet at the moment but waving her arms and legs erratically in the air. 

"Her name is Eve," Sherlock said, without moving from the purposefully casual pose he held in his chair.

Mycroft's nose wrinkled and he turned to John. "Another one of your spawn, I assume. Didn't you learn anything from the first accidental pregnancy?"

"Oh no, she is definitely not mine," John said, not rising to Mycroft's bait. "Sherlock, care to explain the situation? It is your family, after all."

"John, you know very well that I consider you to be family, too."

"Fine. I'll tell him." He turned and looked up at Mycroft. "Yesterday, Eurus showed up here nine months pregnant, and now you and Sherlock are uncles. Congratulations."

"Sorry, what?" Mycroft's face was blank and uncomprehending.

"You heard what he said." Sherlock leaned forward slightly in his chair, still doing an admirable job of pretending to be calm and in control. 

Mycroft stared long enough that John would have worried if he hadn't seen Sherlock do the same thing on more than one occasion. "Eve," he said. "She's...."

"Eurus's daughter, yes," Sherlock said.

"She...." Mycroft trailed off again. 

"You want to take a seat, Mycroft?" John nodded at his own chair. "You're looking a little pale."

Mycroft straightened up. "I'm fine. This is ridiculous. Why would Eurus do such a thing? Where is she?"

"I told you when I called you," Sherlock said. "She left. She put on a pair of my jogging trousers and a t-shirt and walked out of the flat without either John or me noticing."

"I—" Mycroft whipped out his phone and began to type. "I'm going to find her. Now. Did you even try to catch her?"

"No," John said. "We've been a little busy taking care of an infant." And as much as he enjoyed the occasional dose of danger, John had no desire to chase after Eurus when she didn't want to be found. 

"When did you know about this, Sherlock? This...pregnancy. Had she been in contact with you before yesterday?" Even as he interrogated Sherlock, Mycroft continued to pound out texts on his phone. 

"No." Sherlock leaned back in his chair. "I wouldn't have told you if she had been, but I didn't hear anything from her until yesterday morning." 

"I don't believe you."

"I don't care if you believe me. It won't affect the situation either way."

Mycroft took one step closer to the cot and peered down into it. Eve gave a particularly enthusiastic kick of her legs and began to cry—John didn't blame her. "You're certain this is Eurus's child?" Mycroft asked. "Not some prank she's playing on you?"

"Mycroft." John stepped forward, so he stood between him and Sherlock. "I delivered this baby. Sherlock was in the room. This is Eurus's daughter."

All three of them stared at Eve, and her cry of distress trailed off into a low whimper. "How could she do this?" Mycroft asked.

"That's probably something your parents should have explained to all three of you a long time ago." 

Mycroft inhaled and turned to face him; John moved closer to Sherlock's chair. "Why would she do this?"

"I assume because she wanted a baby. It's an awful lot of work to go through otherwise."

"But then why would she leave without the child?"

"Maybe she got spooked once Eve was actually born and she realised what that meant. Or maybe she knew you would find out and she didn't want to go back to prison. It would be hard to go on the run with an infant."

"Maybe she just wanted her child to exist, even if she didn't raise her herself." Sherlock stood up from his chair, forcing John to step out of the way. 

Mycroft was silent for a long moment, looking at Sherlock, before he turned away, giving the cot another brief glance. "Very well. I'll take care of it." He walked across the room to stand by the sofa, pulling out his phone again. 

"What are you doing? Who are you calling now?" Sherlock followed him across the room, craning his neck to try to see Mycroft's phone. "You've already got people looking for Eurus. What more do you need to do? Besides leave this flat—Eve clearly doesn't like you. John, pick her up so she'll stop being scared." 

John moved over to the cot and reached down to pat Eve, trying to quiet her, though she really wasn't doing much more than fussing a bit now. He kept his eyes on Sherlock and Mycroft, intuition telling him that he needed to stay alert because their argument was about to escalate. 

Mycroft ignored Sherlock, speaking into his phone. "Yes, we'll need another team sent to Baker Street. Sherlock's flat. No, nothing like that. He has an...unexpected visitor and we'll need someone equipped to handle an infant. I think we should be able to find a placement at Hartswood, perhaps?"

Sherlock's eyes widened, and he lunged at Mycroft, tearing the phone out of his hand.

"How dare you—" Mycroft tried to grab his phone back, but Sherlock tossed it across the room.

John caught it in one hand and slipped it into the back pocket of his trousers, then crossed his arms over his chest, keeping his back to the cot. This was somehow exactly what he'd envisioned when he'd promised Sherlock he'd help him keep Mycroft from trying to take Eve. 

Mycroft glanced once at John and sighed, then turned back towards Sherlock. "Be reasonable, for once in your life, will you? You can't keep a child in this flat. Good Lord, Sherlock. John, tell him he can't keep her."

John had apparently missed the part where Sherlock told Mycroft that he intended to keep and raise Eve himself, but no matter. "Of course he can keep her, Mycroft. She's his niece. Who else is there? Your parents are too old to look after a baby—hell, most of the time, I feel too old to be doing it. And you can't put her in some institution or adopt her out to strangers when she has family willing to take care of her."

"And you think Sherlock is equipped to raise a child?"

"He's virtually raising one already, in case you haven't noticed. He parents Rosie nearly as much as I do, and just as well."

"Yes, well." Mycroft held his gaze, making it clear what he thought about that. "I do assume young Miss Rosamund will be somewhat easier to rear to adulthood, given that the Watson-erm, Morstan gene pool must be at least slightly more stable than that of the Holmes family."

"If our genetic legacy is so questionable, brother dear, then you can't be suggesting that we allow someone else to raise her. They wouldn't have a chance. I'm her best hope."

"God help us all." Mycroft frowned at the cot again, then turned back to Sherlock. "Regardless of how suited you think you may be as a parent, I assume that this child does, in fact, have a father already. We'll need to locate him, of course."

"Assuming Eurus didn't kill him and eat him as soon as she was done with him," John muttered.

"Why would she eat him?" Sherlock asked. "She's not a praying mantis."

John sighed and shook his head. "Never mind. You're right. She's not a cannibal, at least not that we're aware of, so that's one point in her favour." 

"Did she mention anything at all about who the father may be?" Mycroft asked. "She's been out for 44 weeks and three days, so I assume it wasn't anyone she encountered at Sherrinford."

"No, she didn't say anything specific about the father. She just said...." Sherlock blinked once, then said, "John, did you—"

"Hmm?"

"Eurus said the father looked like you. Did you—"

"What? Sherlock, no! That's not what she said! Why would you even think—" 

Mycroft interrupted, his voice infuriatingly calm. "She may have disguised herself so that you didn't recognise her."

"No! There's no way." He didn't have to think too hard about it, even if she had disguised herself. "I haven't slept with a woman since Mary!"

"A woman?" Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "How oddly specific." 

"Jesus, Mycroft," John sputtered. He had no idea why he'd phrased it that way. "I haven't slept with anyone since Mary died. I've been working full-time and parenting a two-year-old. I don't exactly have a sex life."

"No, it's just been you and your hand and your unfulfilled fantasies, I see, hasn't it?" Mycroft turned his back on him, and John had to fight back an urge to grab him by the arm and spin him around, to demand that he say that again to his face. What right did Mycroft have to make insinuations about his private life?

"Leave him alone, Mycroft. He said he's not the father." Sherlock came back across the room to stand by John next to the cot, a show of solidarity that John appreciated. 

Mycroft faced them both. "Yes. Well. I am pleased to learn that you didn't have sex with my baby sister, Doctor Watson. Though in hindsight, she is a bit your type, isn't she?"

"Shut up, Mycroft. I was only texting with her." He never should have told Mycroft about her posing as the woman on the bus, but when he had first learned of Eurus's existence it had seemed best to tell him everything. 

"Oh, no. I don't mean when she was flirting with you at your bus stop. I meant after you learned she was a murderer. That is your type after all, isn't it? Although Eurus was never paid for it—"

John launched himself at him, right hand already forming a fist, but before he could throw a punch, Sherlock stepped between them, catching John in a bear hug and flattening his arms against his sides.

"Stop, let me—" John struggled against him, dismayed to find himself overpowered.

"No." Sherlock held him firm, and even forced him to take a step backwards, away from Mycroft. Behind them, Eve stopped her mild fussing and began to cry outright, a thin wail that rapidly grew in volume. 

After a moment, John stopped fighting back, unwilling to embarrass himself any further when it was clear he couldn't win. Why did Sherlock have to be so damned tall and strong? And why had he felt compelled to stop him from punching Mycroft? 

When it was clear that John was no longer trying to escape his hold, Sherlock let go of him. Neither of them met each other's eyes.

"Why...." John trailed off, breathing heavily, unwilling to ask the question in front of Mycroft and not sure that he'd be able to talk about it even if it were just him and Sherlock. _Why would you stop me from hitting him when you've never lifted a finger to defend yourself all the times I've attacked you?_ He should have known that he didn't need to ask it out loud, not when Mycroft and Sherlock were involved. 

Mycroft cleared his throat as he straightened his tie. "Sherlock has always lacked a sense of self-preservation. As very recently demonstrated by his failure to notify me that Eurus was here in this flat. Though, frankly, I expected better than that of you, Doctor Watson. May I have my phone back, now, please?"

John glared at him but pulled Mycroft's phone from his back pocket, more upset at himself for losing control than anything else. Not that Mycroft didn't deserve to be punched, but he'd thought he'd made more progress in managing his anger over the last year and a half, during all his sessions with an actual therapist. He handed Mycroft his phone and then turned away, walking back over to Eve's cot. Her wails had come down in volume but she was still crying, and she had managed to pull one of her legs too far into her romper, frustrating herself even more as she tried to kick her legs. He lifted her from the cot, straightening out her leg inside her clothes for her, then held her upright against his chest, slowing down his own breathing in the hopes that he could calm them both at the same time. After a few moments she stopped crying and he turned around. "I know it's too soon for her to be hungry again. I think she just wants to be held."

"I'll take her." Sherlock reached out for her and John handed her off. He didn't mind holding her himself, but it was good to show Mycroft that Sherlock knew what he was doing. He smiled as Sherlock began to sway gently from side-to-side as soon as Eve was in his arms. She would probably like the violin, softly-played lullabies, of course. Mary had played classical music for Rosie to hear before she was born; he wondered if Eurus had ever played her violin for Eve. Maybe he could suggest that Sherlock play once they got Mycroft out of the flat.

"Do the two of you plan to hold her constantly until she's old enough to move about on her own?"

"Yes," Sherlock answered. "She likes it, and it's good for her. Prolonged physical contact can promote bonding and help develop the neural pathways that handle emotional and social growth. John, do you still have the carrier sling you and Mary used with Rosie?"

"Erm, yeah, probably. I'll add it to the list and look for it when I go home." He and Mary had tried to use the sling as much as they could when Rosie was very small. That is, when he wasn't busy ignoring her so he could text the woman he'd met on the bus— _Eurus_ —and when Mary wasn't fleeing halfway around the world in an attempt to outrun her past. God. Thankfully, Rosie seemed to be turning out all right despite her parents' flaws. He did try to be a better father now, and maybe he could help Sherlock do better with Eve.

"Wouldn't it be preferable to teach her to be independent?"

"No," Sherlock said, just as John said, "She's a day old, Mycroft." 

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Anyway, as I tried to say before, it doesn't matter how you may want to raise her if she has a father somewhere out there who wants custody of her himself."

"We can't let some random man raise her, Mycroft. As you also said before, she has our family's genes. I know she'll be fine, but we will need to keep a close eye on her. She'll be far too intelligent for a normal person to handle."

John's instinct was to object. Yes, everyone in the Holmes family was very smart, but intelligence was far from the most important quality needed as a parent. But he kept his mouth shut, because he did think Sherlock would be a good father. 

"Well." Mycroft folded his hands at his waist. "This is quite the unexpected dilemma, isn't it?"

"No. She is not a dilemma. She's a child, and she is staying with me, so you can forget about whatever diabolical little plan may be forming in your mind."

"You do realise I could theoretically make a stronger case for myself as an adoptive parent based simply on financial resources and personal history."

"Your personal history of leaving her mother locked in prison from childhood without a trial?"

"You've never even held an infant, Mycroft," John added. 

"On the contrary, I helped parent Sherlock and Eurus when I was barely more than a child myself."

"And look how that turned out." John tipped his head and gave him a flat smile.

Mycroft's eyes narrowed. "I've never been an addict. Never killed anyone in cold blood. Never—"

"Get out of my flat, Mycroft. Now." To his credit, Sherlock didn't even pause in his rocking of Eve, though his voice had hardened to steel.

Mycroft stood without moving for a moment, and John wondered if he should offer to hold Eve, or if Sherlock would now let him physically remove Mycroft from the flat himself. Finally, Mycroft's shoulders lowered a fraction of an inch and he spoke to Sherlock. "You obviously care for this child already, though I do recommend that you not become too attached, as I will be attempting to locate her father. And I must insist that should Eurus return to this flat, or otherwise make contact with you, you inform me immediately. For Eve's sake. Do you understand?"

"No." Sherlock returned his stare. "I will not help you put Eurus back behind bars. When I found her in her old bedroom at Musgrave Hall, I told her I would bring her home. And I wasn't able to do that, not for very long, anyway, but I can help her stay free."

Mycroft blinked his eyes shut for a moment, then looked at John. "What about you? Will you follow Sherlock's lead in this, as well, or do you still have some small scrap of sense left in your head?"

John hesitated, then shook his head. He'd promised Sherlock he'd help him keep Mycroft from taking Eve, but he hadn't agreed to protect Eurus, as well. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I don't think Eurus should be free. I know you think she's changed—"

"She has changed! You saw her!"

"She can't change, Sherlock." Mycroft's voice was low and firm. "You know this. She is a psychopath. She is clinically unable to change."

"No. Not true. She was never given a chance."

"She manipulated every doctor and therapist who ever tried to treat her."

"Yes, she did manipulate everyone who tried to treat her, but that was because it was all she knew. No one ever tried to treat her as anything more than a disease. She finally realised she had to help herself, and needed me to help her. That's what happened at Sherrinford last year."

"No," John countered. "What happened at Sherrinford was she tortured us, killed five more people, and tried to drown me in a well." 

"She wanted me to save her! She needed me to."

"Well, she sure had a funny way of asking for help."

"Knowing how to express one's feelings doesn't come naturally to everyone. Eurus has changed." Sherlock swallowed visibly and shifted his hold on Eve against his chest. "Mycroft, you were wrong about her before, and never allowed her the chance to have any life outside of Sherrinford, and you're wrong about her now. I won't say she's perfect, but she deserves a chance."

"She's a murderer, Sherlock."

"Everyone in this room is a murderer."

"None have us have killed without reason, unlike Eurus. And I've never pulled the trigger."

"That doesn't make you any better! You let Moriarty run free for two years. You knew he'd kidnapped people to use as hostages for the little game he was playing with me, and you knew he blew up an entire building full of people when that old woman tried to identify him. And then he kidnapped John and almost killed us both. And yet you still let him go. Why did you treat Eurus so differently? So you could keep her around and use her to predict terrorist attacks and do other jobs your people aren't skilled enough to do themselves?"

Sherlock was right, John thought, but the conclusion he was drawing was wrong. Moriarty had been just as much of a psychopath as Eurus was, and he'd flaunted it in front of both Sherlock and Mycroft, never trying to hide his crimes. That didn't mean Eurus shouldn't be locked up, though. It just meant Moriarty should have been, as well.

Mycroft didn't answer, but a loud, two-toned beep cut through his silence, making Eve startle in Sherlock's arms and begin to cry again. 

"That's my phone," Sherlock announced.

"Obviously, given that the sound came from your pocket," Mycroft said. "Why should—"

"No," John said. "That text alert sound—that was mine, wasn't it? You don't use that for anyone else." He didn't know why the idea of sharing a tone on Sherlock's phone bothered him, but it did. 

"No, just you." Sherlock shuffled Eve into a one-armed hold and pulled his phone from his jacket.

"But I didn't—" John reached for his own phone before realising it wasn't in its customary place in his pocket. When had he taken it out? He knew he'd brought it downstairs this morning, but hadn't used it since then.

"It's—" Sherlock frowned down at his screen. "It's from your number, but Eurus sent it."

"What?" 

"It says, 'Take care of her, brother.' But it came from your number."

"She stole my phone?" John felt his empty pockets again, then let his hands drop to his sides in defeat.

"Excellent, we can easily track your phone," Mycroft said.

"Hang on," Sherlock said, and pressed the screen of his phone with his thumb. A moment later, they heard a faint ringing coming from down the hall. John followed the sound through the kitchen and into the bedroom, where his phone sat on top of Sherlock's chest of drawers.

"She didn't steal your phone, she borrowed it," Sherlock said, when John returned to the living room. "She scheduled that message to be sent, then left the phone so we couldn't use it to track her."

John frowned down at the phone in his hand. It looked exactly the same as it had this morning, but knowing that Eurus had taken it and used it without his permission made him want to scrub it clean, or delete everything on it and buy a new one. Instead, he opened the text app and saw that the message Sherlock had received had indeed come from it. She must have taken it while he'd been alone in the bedroom with her, checking her blood pressure, which meant she'd been planning to leave before she'd gone to have a shower—it hadn't been a spur of the moment decision. It didn't sound like she was planning to return, either; her message sounded like a farewell note, to him. A note.... "Hang on, Sherlock. Earlier, when Eurus was here, you said...." He paused, unsure if he should even bring it up. He had to, though, or Sherlock would never forgive him. "You said you thought she'd wanted to kill herself. Was that true?"

Sherlock looked at him and opened his mouth, then closed it. He looked down at Eve, who had found the collar of his shirt and was sucking enthusiastically on it. A heartbeat later, he said, "That was more than a year ago. Things in her life have obviously changed."

"Yeah." John didn't pursue it. He wasn't comfortable with Eurus being alive and running free, but the alternative....

"She can't—" Mycroft began. 

"She wouldn't," Sherlock said. "At least, I don't think she would. She didn't seem like she wanted to die this morning. Did she?" He turned to John.

"No. At least, I don't think so. I don't know." She was postpartum and had just abandoned her newborn daughter. Who knew what she was thinking? He could see Sherlock and Mycroft having the same thoughts as he was.

"Sherlock. If she.... Mummy and Daddy would never.... They still haven't forgiven me for not telling them she was alive in the first place. We need to find her. Now, Sherlock."

"We need to? You're the one with an army of civil servants at your beck and call. Do it yourself."

"I couldn't find her before. What makes you think I can now?" Mycroft let his phone clatter onto the coffee table and dropped down to sit on the sofa, coming as close to a sprawl as John had ever seen him.

"Take her," Sherlock said, and passed Eve off to John. He crossed the room in two long strides and sat down next to Mycroft. He would have to agree to help find Eurus now, if he thought she was suicidal. Wouldn't he?

Eve let out a fresh squawk of displeasure and John shifted her in his arms until she was draped on her stomach across his forearm, her head resting in his hand and arms and legs dangling to either side of his arm. Rosie had always quieted when he held her this way, and it seemed to work with Eve, too, at least for the moment. 

"Can your homeless network help—" Mycroft began, before he was cut off by the buzzing of his own phone, magnified by the wood of the table where he'd dropped it. He stared blankly at it for a moment, then shook his head and picked it up. "Yes?" he said into the phone. 

John stood across the room from them, stroking Eve's back with his free hand and watching Mycroft's face for any clue as to what he was hearing. 

Mycroft didn't say a word for nearly a minute, then ended the call and put his phone back down on the table. He lifted his chin, his normally impassive face softening just a bit. "A woman in the first floor flat of 229 Baker Street reported that she found a stranger's clothes discarded on the floor of her bedroom. Men's size large jogging trousers and a dark blue t-shirt. No other sign of an intruder, but upon investigation, my team discovered that she was, in fact, missing at least three shirts, a skirt and a pair of trousers of her own, as well as underwear, size six trainers and a black drawstring bag."

John watched some of the tension ease out of Sherlock's posture. "If she's made the effort to find clothes that fit, she wants to escape. She's not planning to kill herself."

"Yes, I would agree." 

John swallowed, mostly in relief, though a small part of him wondered if the world wouldn't be a better place if Eurus Holmes did decide to remove herself from it. "She didn't...hurt anyone?" 

Mycroft shook his head. "No one in the flat even knew she'd been there, until they went into the bedroom and found Sherlock's clothes."

"Well, that's good, at least."

"Yes, it is." Sherlock stood up from the sofa and began to pace. "Have your team check the woman's make-up. I'll wager that Eurus took enough that she'll be able to change her appearance significantly. You might have passed her on the street on your way here without even noticing. She's too good for you to catch her, brother dear."

"She will be found and taken into custody again, Sherlock. With or without your assistance." Mycroft let out a small sigh. "And while I have yet to be convinced of the wisdom of leaving an infant here in this flat, I do admit that it is the easiest option for the present time. Do not take this to mean that I approve of anything you have done in the last 24 hours." 

"Good thing I stopped looking for your approval about 35 years ago, then."

Mycroft huffed and picked up his phone again, slotting it neatly away inside his jacket. "Security will remain in place along this street, of course, in case Eurus does attempt to return. I recommend notifying me should you expect any visitors to the flat, particularly those of a shorter persuasion. Under say, five-foot, eight inches tall?" He raised an eyebrow at John.

"Shut up, Mycroft." John turned away from him, bringing Eve up to his shoulder again. He forced his mind away from the drama of Eurus, trying to remember more things they would need to get for Eve. A changing table—Sherlock's bed would work for now, but a proper table at waist height would be ideal, and with Rosie still in nappies herself, he couldn't bring hers here. Rosie. "I have to call Molly and find out what time she needs me back. She's had Rosie for over 24 hours. Do you think you and Eve will be all right alone, Sherlock?"

"Of course," Sherlock said. "I'm not—" Before he could finish, he was interrupted by his phone once again, the sound doubled this time, as Mycroft's phone went off at the same time.

"Oh, for God's sake," Mycroft said. "How many texts did she schedule before she left, hmm? John, check and see if there are any more in your queue."

"How do I—"

"No, that wasn't sent from John's phone," Sherlock said, pulling his own from his pocket. He frowned down at it. "And it wasn't from Eurus. Oh, God." He looked at Mycroft, whose eyes widened as he stared at his own phone.

"Did you...did you call Mummy to tell her about Eurus and Eve before you called me, Sherlock?"

"Don't be ridiculous. Of course I didn't. John...no, you couldn't have, because you didn't have your phone on you, did you?"

John shook his head. The thought hadn't even occurred to him, though of course Sherlock's parents did deserve to know that they now had a grandchild.

"Well, someone told her," Mycroft said. "And I will now be leaving." He stood up. "If Mummy is on her way here, I would prefer to be as far away as possible by the time she arrives. She's spent the last year and a half castigating me over my supposed mistreatment of Eurus, and I have no desire to listen to her again today. Enjoy her visit, Sherlock. Though do take any parenting advice she offers with a grain of salt. Her track record with raising children leaves a great deal to be desired."


	6. Chapter 6

Mycroft left, and Sherlock took Eve so John could phone Molly and let her know that Eurus was gone and that he would come pick up Rosie soon. When he got off the phone—the conversation took less than five minutes—he found Sherlock and Eve both asleep in the bedroom, Eve in her cot and Sherlock stretched out on his bed on top of the blankets. 

Moving as quietly as he could, John pulled the curtains shut and gathered up the dirty sheets that were still sitting on the floor, adding them to the basket with the towels Sherlock had used after Eurus's water had broken. He would start a load of laundry before he left. Except once he'd done that, he noticed the washing up in the kitchen. He should at least do the baby bottles, and Sherlock was more likely to eat meals on his own if there were clean dishes. Before he knew it, nearly an hour had passed and he heard voices and footsteps coming up the stairs. 

He picked up a tea towel to dry his hands, but before he could make it out of the kitchen, Sherlock dashed from the bedroom into the living room and cracked open the door to the landing. "Mummy, be quiet!" he hissed, his voice was low but impassioned. "You're going to wake the baby. She's supposed to be sleeping in increments of two to four hours, but she can't do that if people are shouting in the hallway." 

"Sherlock, it's okay." John tossed the towel onto the worktop and jogged out to join him in the living room. "And don't get too invested in the idea of Eve having a predictable sleep schedule this early on." He reached past Sherlock to pull the door open wider. "Come on in, Mrs. Holmes. Oh, and Mrs. Hudson, hello." He stepped back and waved the two of them in.

"You!" Sherlock glared at Mrs. Hudson. "You're the one who called her, aren't you?"

"Well, of course she is, Sherlock," Mrs. Holmes said, as she entered the flat. "I wouldn't expect you or your brother to phone me, useless men that you are. But Mrs. Hudson knew I would want to know I have a grandchild. She may not have children of her own, but she understands a mother's instinct."

"It was the least I could do," Mrs. Hudson said. "You'll let me know if you need anything else, won't you?"

"Of course, thank you," Mrs. Holmes said, and John caught a glimpse of Mrs. Hudson's self-satisfied grin as she turned to go back downstairs to her own flat. 

Sherlock scowled and threw himself down onto the sofa. "I thought Eurus had called you."

"Oh, no, no, it wasn't her." Mrs. Holmes dropped her handbag onto the coffee table and put her hands on her hips, looking around the flat. "Where is she? I haven't seen her in ages, not since that concert the two of you played for us last Easter. I've been so worried about her ever since she got out. And to think she's had a baby without any of us ever knowing she was expecting! Where's the baby?"

"The baby is asleep in my bedroom, but Eurus is gone, Mummy."

"Gone, do you mean—?" 

John could see the colour drain from Mrs. Holmes's face beneath her makeup and he quickly intervened. "She slipped out of the flat a couple of hours ago while we thought she was having a shower."

"Oh, thank God." She turned to Sherlock, hands on her hips once more. "How could you let her leave before I got a chance to see her, Sherlock? Did you even try to stop her? How was she feeling? And how is the baby? Let me see the baby. I need to see the baby."

"I told you, the baby is asleep, Mummy. And please keep your voice down, so she stays that way."

John snorted. "She's not speaking any louder than you were snoring a few minutes ago."

Sherlock's mouth fell open for a moment. "I do not snore." 

"Yeah, when you sleep on your back you do. Doesn't sound like sleep apnoea, though, so I wouldn't worry about it too much."

"I won't worry about it, because I don't do it."

"You're right, John. He's always snored when he sleeps on his back. Just like his father." Mrs. Holmes glanced from him to Sherlock and back again, looking a bit puzzled.

John gave her a tight smile. He didn't really need Sherlock's mother to start thinking that he was in the habit of watching him sleep. "Eve's cot is in Sherlock's room if you want to take a peek at her."

"Yes, of course I want to see her." Mrs. Holmes set off through the kitchen, giving a brief tug on the strings of Wiggins's congratulatory balloon bouquet as she passed by the table.

Sherlock met John's eyes and grimaced, then went after her. John hesitated for a moment before following them. His first instinct was to give them some private family time, but he knew Sherlock wouldn't want to be alone with his mother for long.

Eve didn't stir when they came into the room, but as they gathered around the cot, they could see the pale green blanket she was swaddled in rise and fall with each sleeping breath she took. 

"Oh," Mrs. Holmes said softly. "Oh, my. I...." She trailed off, and neither John nor Sherlock tried to stop her from reaching over the side of the cot and settling her fingertips on Eve's tiny chest. "She's the picture of baby Eurus. You and your brother were bald as eggs but Eurus had a beautiful head of hair just like this. My little girl." She lifted her hand from Eve and brought it up to her own face, covering her mouth. 

John stepped back away from the cot, wondering again if he should leave them alone. Just as he was about to try to slip out of the room, Mrs. Holmes looked up from the cot, frowning at the curtained windows. "You don't get very much light in here, do you, Sherlock? Not ideal for a growing child. And it could use a bit of redecorating. These dark colours are too heavy for a little girl to grow up with."

John knew Sherlock hadn't told her that Eve would be staying here permanently, but of course she was his mother—she'd probably deduced it on her own. 

"At this point, she can only see a few inches in front of her face, Mummy. I don't think it matters what colour the walls are painted."

"Oh, but it will. Hmm. If she moves to the upstairs bedroom when she's a little older, we could paint it a nice pale shade of violet. Unless John will still want to be using that on the nights he stays over." She glanced over her shoulder at him, making John shift uncomfortably. It didn't sound like she thought he would stop spending the night here, but why did she think he would sleep anywhere other than the bedroom upstairs? It's not as if Sherlock was going to suddenly offer to share his bed with him.

Mrs. Holmes turned back to the cot and John closed his eyes and took a slow breath. He was used to Mrs. Hudson thinking he and Sherlock were interested in each other romantically, but now the entire Holmes family seemed to be doing it. Except for Sherlock, of course, who never seemed to notice the insinuations at all. 

"I'm going to go and see if there's anything in for lunch," John announced, and removed himself from the bedroom. He didn't bother checking to see what was in the fridge, just pulled out his phone and placed an order for Chinese, enough to feed all three of them with leftovers for Sherlock for a day or two. At the last minute he changed the order to takeaway instead of delivery—he needed to get out of the flat for a few minutes, and not think about babies or Eurus or Sherlock or anything at all.

He picked up the food and walked back home, hungry and more relaxed than he had been in two days. As he was letting himself back into the building, Mrs. Hudson emerged from her flat. 

"Oh, John. I thought I heard the door open. Did you talk Sherlock round yet? About sending his sister back to prison, I mean."

"Er, no. Not exactly. Eurus took off a few hours ago. Left the baby behind. We don't think she plans to come back. At least, I hope she doesn't."

"Well, that's certainly good news, isn't it?" Mrs. Hudson stepped closer as John started towards the staircase. "And how is the baby? And Sherlock—is he behaving for his mother? Oh, what smells so good? Is that lunch you've got there?"

John lifted the carrier bag. "There's extra, if you want to join us," he told her. She certainly fed them often enough; he could at least return the favour. 

He led her upstairs and set the food out on the coffee table. There were only two chairs in the kitchen, but plenty of space for the four of them to gather in the living room and neither Mrs. Hudson nor Mrs. Holmes seemed fussed about dining in the non-traditional space. John sat at the desk so he wouldn't have to hold his food on his lap, while Sherlock chose his armchair, balancing his container of rice and chicken on his knees. Mrs. Holmes and Mrs. Hudson shared the sofa. John had never seen them together before today, and he wouldn't have been surprised if there was some animosity, given how often Sherlock complained to Mrs. Hudson about his mother. But they were surprisingly chummy with each other now. Mrs. Holmes spent the meal regaling them with stories of her children as toddlers, carefully avoiding any of the more gruesome details that John had heard about Eurus as a child.

They were almost done eating when the doorbell rang. "That's Molly with Rosie," Sherlock said, through a mouthful of rice. "Go let them in."

John swallowed the last bite of his noodles. "No, when I called Molly, I told her I would pick Rosie up from her place."

"That was over two hours ago. She got impatient. A longer press of the bell than normal for her, but definitely Molly."

"If you say so." And sure enough, when John went downstairs and opened the door to the street, he found Rosie practically hanging from the knob on the other side.

"Daddy! Daddy!" She wrapped his leg in an embrace. "I did camping! On Aunt Mowwy's floor! I sleeped on the floor!"

"Did you? That sounds like fun!" He put a hand on her head and looked up at Molly, eyebrows raised.

"Sorry, sorry. I know I told you I could keep her till five, but, it's just, I have a date tonight, we met online, and it will take me some time to get ready, and...." Molly trailed off, looking not at John but past him, as if she expected Sherlock to come running down the stairs to say something rude about her plans for her date. Though now that he thought about it, John hadn't heard him insult her in quite some time. Possibly before Sherrinford. 

John cleared his throat. "It's fine, Molly. It's fine. I should have picked her up this morning, but it's been so hectic around here." He waved his hand towards the staircase behind him. 

"I understand. Um." Molly turned her head and looked down the street. "That man in the black suit at the corner? When we got out of the cab, he asked me where I was going and how I knew Sherlock. I thought he was going to want to see ID, like I was at a club, but then he let me go. I think he had a camera in his sunglasses." 

"Oh, God. Sorry. That's Mycroft's doing. He said he was going to question everyone who came here to make sure they weren't Eurus in disguise, but I didn't know he was really going to do it. Mrs. Holmes is here, and she didn't mention anyone bothering her."

Molly giggled. "Sherlock says Mycroft's afraid of their mother. He probably didn't want to upset her."

"That's probably true." John smiled half-heartedly. "She's been pretty harsh on him. Because of Eurus. How he lied about her all those years." 

"Daddy!" Rosie tugged on his leg again. "See the baby now." 

"Oh, I hope it's okay, John. I told her there was a new baby here. Maybe you wanted it to be a surprise."

"No, it's fine, Molly."

"Wanna seeee!" Rosie tried to crawl up his leg and John reached down to scoop her into his arms.

"Okay, okay. We'll go see the baby, but you have to be quiet so you don't wake her up. Can you do that?"

"Yes!" Rosie shouted. 

John sighed and turned around to head up the stairs.

As soon as they walked through the door, Mrs. Holmes popped up from her spot on the sofa. "Hello, Rosie dear!"

Rosie froze, then buried her head in John's shoulder. 

"It's okay, sweetie." John tried to turn her around but she wouldn't loosen her grip on his arm. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Holmes. She's a little shy around people she doesn't see often."

"But she saw me at Christmas. We ate gingerbread men together."

"That was nearly five months ago, Mummy." Sherlock dropped his empty dinner container on the table next to his chair and strode across the room. "That's a lifetime for a two-year old."

"Oh, I'd forgotten that you're now an expert on child development, Sherlock." Mrs. Holmes widened her eyes at him, making the family resemblance between them even more apparent than it normally was.

"I am." He turned his back on his mother, standing in between her and John so he could hold his arms out to Rosie. "I bet you want to meet the new baby, don't you little Rose?"

"Yes-yes-yes!" She released her grip on John's arm and let herself fall into Sherlock's waiting hands. 

Sherlock shifted her onto one hip and raised a finger to his lips. "You can see baby Eve, but you need to be very quiet so you don't wake her up. Can you do that?" 

"Mm-hmm, mm-hmm." Rosie nodded rapidly and brought her finger to her own lips in imitation. "Quiet." She looked towards the kitchen and whispered, "Balloons."

"You can have one of the balloons if you show me how quiet you can be, all right?" Sherlock carried her through the kitchen and John followed, with Molly, Mrs. Hudson and Mrs. Holmes all trailing behind them. John bit back his instinct to forbid them all from going into the bedroom at once. He understood the urge to look at babies, and Rosie's reaction was sure to increase the level of cuteness exponentially. Besides, Sherlock was the one who was in charge when it came to Eve, and he didn't try to stop his mother or Mrs. Hudson from joining them, even though they'd seen her already.

Sherlock stopped next to the cot, holding Rosie so she could lean over and peer down into it. "Rosie, meet Eve." 

John could hear her soft exhalation of awe, then she spoke, quietly, as promised. "That my baby sister?

He started in surprise. "No, sweetie, she's not your sister. She's just...." How could he describe her to Rosie? Sherlock's niece? Rosie wouldn't understand the word, and it didn't seem to fully describe his relationship with the baby, anyway.

"More like your stepsister," Molly said, and then followed it immediately with a nervous giggle. "No, sorry. That doesn't make any sense really, does it?"

"I want a baby sister!" Rosie threw herself backwards, rocking against Sherlock's arms until he lowered her to the floor.

"Shh, Rosie—" John began. 

"No!" she shouted, and turned and ran out of the room. 

"Rosie!" John called after her, knowing that Eve was going to wake up but unable to ignore his upset child. "Erm, excuse me, I need to—" He turned on his heel and jogged out of the room, leaving the others clustered around Eve's cot. 

He found Rosie in the living room, pouting on the sofa with her legs pulled up to her chin and arms crossed over her knees. 

"Hey, sweetheart." He stopped on the far side of the coffee table. 

"Go 'way, Daddy!"

"Rosie." Sherlock's voice, soft and gentle, came from behind John. "Daddy isn't trying to be mean to you. Here, I've got your balloon for you. You can take it home with you later, okay?" He let the balloon he'd liberated from the bouquet in the kitchen float up until it bobbed against the ceiling, then stepped around John and the coffee table and sat down next to her on the sofa. 

Rosie didn't push him away, though John was sure she wouldn't have let him sit next to her. Instead, she stared up at the balloon for a moment, then let out a shuddering sigh. "I want a baby sister!" she bawled, actual tears running down her cheeks as she buried her face against Sherlock's arm.

"I understand, Rosie," John said. "I'm sorry, but...." He trailed off, unsure of how to explain to a two-year-old why she would never have a sister. 

"Eve has a different mummy and daddy than you do," Sherlock told her, "but you can still be sisters if you want to. How does that sound? If it's okay with Daddy, I mean." He glanced up briefly, giving John a look he couldn't interpret.

John hesitated, then nodded, his mind caught more on Sherlock's expression than on Rosie's distress. 

"Come here, my little Rose." Sherlock pulled her fully into his arms and stood up, settling her on his hip, his right arm holding all her weight. He walked around the end of the coffee table to stand next to John. "You can explain it to her better when she's older, but it won't hurt anything for now. They'll certainly see each other frequently, if Eve is living here with me. And she already calls Molly her aunt and Mrs. Hudson 'Granny.' Her family doesn't need to be determined by genetics."

"I know," John said. He bit at the inside of his lip, unable to express his fear that calling Rosie and Eve siblings would only make him even more aware of the relationship he and Sherlock would never have. He swallowed back a sigh and put his hand on Rosie's back. "Sherlock's right, sweetie. Eve will be just like a little sister to you." 

He paused, waiting to see if Rosie would stay calm or burst into tears once again—maybe she only wanted Sherlock to comfort her. But she stayed quiet, head resting on Sherlock's chest, and a moment later reached out with one small hand to grip John's shirt sleeve. John let himself be pulled closer, and then felt Sherlock's free arm snake around his waist, until his hand rested low on John's back. John caught his breath for a split-second, then let himself relax into the embrace. A simple hug between the three of them, meant to console Rosie, miles away from how Sherlock had held him yesterday when he'd broken down on the kitchen floor. Maybe...maybe this could be enough. He put his arms up and around the two of them, feeling Rosie's hair tickle his nose and the lean muscles of Sherlock's back through his jacket. For a moment or two he was content, and then the doorbell rang again, shattering the peaceful tableau.

Sherlock's hand clenched against his back briefly before they leaned away from each other, both turning their heads towards the door. "Client?" John asked, thinking it was a safe assumption, given that nearly every person they knew was either in the flat or had been here earlier today.

Sherlock shook his head. "Too abrupt of a buzz. Delivery man. But I haven't ordered anything, have you?"

"No." A twinge of dread crept up through his body and he reached out to take Rosie from Sherlock, wanting to keep her away from whoever was at the door downstairs. An overreaction, he hoped—Mycroft's men wouldn't let anyone get that close without vetting them first. 

Sherlock passed her over to him, then turned and marched out of the flat, leaving the door open behind him.

John set Rosie down on her feet. "Go on back in the bedroom with Granny Hudson and Aunt Molly. I'll be back in a minute." He watched to make sure she did as he said, then went out into the stairwell after Sherlock. He couldn't see the door from the top of the stairs, but he could hear as Sherlock opened it and spoke to someone outside. 

"No need for that. I can take it from here." There was the sound of a heavy package being slid across the stoop, then Sherlock called upstairs. "John, I'll need a hand with this, I think."

John scrambled down the steps, mind racing as he wondered what had been delivered. "Er, what is that?" he said, when he saw Sherlock standing just inside the door next to a cardboard box as tall as his chest and wider than his body. "Is Eurus hiding inside it?"

"No, it's not that heavy. Just too bulky for me to carry on my own." Sherlock pushed on the box, tilting it up. It was unlabelled apart from a string of random numbers and letters printed across one side, presumably meaningful only to the manufacturer of whatever it contained. "It's a rocking chair." 

"When did you order a rocking chair?"

"I didn't."

"Mycroft?"

"Unlikely. Come on, I'll tip it towards you and you can take the light end if you'll walk backwards up the stairs."

They carried it up the stairs, only encountering a bit of trouble as they turned on the landing to go up the short second flight. As they manoeuvred the box into the flat, Molly came out into the living room, holding Rosie by the hand. "It was lovely to see the baby, but I really need to—oh, what's that?" 

"A rocking chair," Sherlock said, and lowered his end of the box a few inches until it met the floor with a thud. "No, sorry. Not a rocking chair, a glider and stool. It will need to be assembled, and I think I would prefer the aesthetics of a more traditional rocking chair, but—" He tore open the flaps on the box; John could see a cream-coloured cushion wrapped in plastic sitting at the top of it.

"But where did it come from?" Molly asked.

"Isn't it obvious?" Mrs. Holmes stood in the doorway to the kitchen, Mrs. Hudson peeking through next to her. "Eurus sent it, for Eve."

"Eurus...oh my. Maybe you shouldn't—" Mrs. Hudson began. 

"It's fine," Sherlock snapped, and tipped the box over, tossing the cushions to the side as he began to pull out pieces of the wooden chair—it did appear to be mostly assembled, though the sections would need to be attached to one another. "Mrs. Hudson, be a dear and put on some water for tea for us. And John, get me a screwdriver. There should be one on the desk somewhere. Molly, go ahead and leave, you don't need to be polite. Don't want to be late for your date tonight, do you? Maybe he's the one."

"Sherlock—" Mrs. Holmes began.

"No, it's all right," Molly said. "I do need to go. Thanks for letting me see the baby. She's beautiful."

John crossed the room to meet her at the door. "Thank you again for watching Rosie. I really didn't know I was going to be here for so long."

"It all worked out for the best, though, didn't it? Or at least as well as you could hope, with Eurus, I mean. Is the baby going to stay here? With Sherlock?"

"I think so." John scratched at his jaw. "Seems the best option, anyway."

"She's staying," Sherlock said. "John, you were getting me a screwdriver?"

John dropped his hand to his side but didn't let himself make a fist. "Okay, first of all, you know where the screwdriver is so you can get it yourself, Sherlock. And second, I will bet you money that the only thing you need to assemble that chair is an Allen key that you would find if you bothered to unpack all the little bags of hardware." 

"You don't have to get snippy about it." Sherlock dropped down to sit cross-legged on the floor and began to paw through the numerous plastic bags that had been in the box.

Rosie came over to give Molly a hug goodbye, and Mrs. Holmes sat down on the sofa again, apparently settling in to watch and offer advice as Sherlock attempted to assemble the glider and its footstool. 

John closed the door behind Molly and turned back to Sherlock and the glider. "How did Eurus order this, anyway? Did she steal your bank card? Or mine?" He reached for his wallet, which was safely tucked in his back pocket—she couldn't have taken his card without him noticing, as she had with his phone. Could she have?

"No." Sherlock sat up straight and frowned at him. "Why would she need to steal a card? I'm sure she has dozens of anonymous bank accounts. How else would she have survived ten months out on her own without leaving a trail of burglaries for Mycroft to discover?"

"I guess you're right."

"Of course I'm right. Come on, think about it. How many bank accounts did you find out about from Mary's will? Eurus is much the same, I imagine. Doubt she's written a will, though." 

John pursed his lips. Between a couple of extremely generous life insurance policies and the multiple bank accounts Mary had scattered over half the world, he didn't exactly have to worry about money anymore. Mary had made sure he and Rosie would have access to everything she had hidden away. He'd never actually mentioned that to Sherlock, though he supposed it wasn't that difficult of a deduction to make. He'd just never known what to say: By the way, I'm rich, now. He still wasn't really comfortable with most people knowing, though he supposed Mrs. Holmes and Mrs. Hudson wouldn't think twice about it, given their own levels of wealth. They certainly weren't paying any attention to him now: Mrs. Hudson was still in the kitchen, making tea, and Mrs. Holmes was watching Rosie, who was busy pulling the remnants of the Styrofoam packing material from the glider box so she could crawl into it. 

On its side as it was, the box wasn't quite big enough for her to stand up in, but once she was all the way inside, Rosie turned around and sat, then whacked the sides of the box with the palms of her hands. "Sh'wock! Come in, too!"

"Oh, my goodness!" Mrs. Holmes said. "She sounds just like you did at that age, Sherlock!"

"Most two-and-a-half-year-olds sound like that, Mummy." He made no move to join Rosie inside the box.

"No, but it took you ages before you could pronounce your own name. It was adorable. John, you should have heard him. He said it just like Rosie does." She smiled at him, then continued. "Come to think of it, Eurus was able to say your name before you could, Sherlock. Mycroft tried to help you, but you wanted no part of that."

Now it was John's turn to smile. Some things never changed, it seemed. 

"Where is Mycroft?" Mrs. Holmes asked. "I thought for sure he would be here, once he heard what had happened."

"He was here but he, er, left," John said, leaving out the fact that he'd gone because he didn't want to see her.

Mrs. Holmes's eyes widened. "Did he...did he try to take Eve away? He did, didn't he?" She rose up off the sofa. "He is not to touch that baby. I will not let him near her. He will have to go through me first. He—"

"Mummy, he's not taking her," Sherlock said. "He wanted to, at first, but once I told him that I planned to keep her here, he came to his senses."

"You listen to me, Sherlock. I will not allow him to steal another child from this family."

"Mummy, calm down. I promise, he isn't going to take her."

"Don't tell me to calm down. If you only knew—" She took a deep breath and then let her shoulders droop, glancing first at John and then at Mrs. Hudson as she came into the room carrying a tray laden with a teapot and cups. "I am sorry. I shouldn't subject all of you to our family's problems. Obviously, I do feel strongly about this. My therapist thinks I need to try to forgive Mycroft if I want to move on, but.... It's hard." 

"Your therapist," Sherlock repeated. A few years ago, John would have expected him to scoff, but Sherlock had changed; now he simply exhaled and said, "I think your therapist may be on to something. You'd be much happier if you weren't spending all your energy being angry at Mycroft."

John swallowed, feeling slightly awkward watching the two of them have this discussion in front of an audience. He understood Mrs. Holmes's anger, though. John had grieved Sherlock for two years, and had been unspeakably angry when he'd found out his death had been a lie. How much worse must it have been for Mrs. Holmes to have spent decades believing she'd lost her child?

"Rosie," he called, and had to say it again when her name caught in his throat. "Come on out of the box for a minute. I'll help you cut some windows in it and you can pretend it's a little house to play in."

Rosie flopped around inside the box for a moment before coming out on her hands and knees. "No, a race car, Daddy! Make a race car!"

"A race car. All right. I'll try." He walked over to the desk to fish a box cutter and a black marker out of the mess on top of it—there was no screwdriver in sight, not that Sherlock needed one, anyway.

"Tea for you, John?" Mrs. Hudson asked as she set the cups out on the coffee table.

"Not right now, thank you. I need to make a race car." He knelt on the floor next to Rosie and started to sketch a design on the outside of the box. 

Mrs. Hudson poured three cups of tea, then sat on the sofa while Mrs. Holmes continued to talk to Sherlock.

"I do wish I'd got the chance to see Eurus. You should have phoned me yesterday when she arrived. I could have been here by mid-afternoon and helped while she was in labour."

"John was a much more effective assistant, Mummy."

She glanced over at John. "And thank you for that. For helping her. I know Sherlock must have been very frightened on his own. He was always squeamish as a child."

"That is not in the least bit true! You used to scold me for bringing home dead animals that I wanted to dissect."

"Oh, yes, that's right. Perhaps I'm thinking of Mycroft. Anyway, I would've liked to be able to see Eve being born. She'll most likely be my only grandchild, after all."

"Consider yourself lucky to have a grandchild at all, Mummy."

"Well, I certainly wasn't expecting to have any, not with the way you and your brother are. John, you need to cut a hole in the top of the box so she can put her head through."

"Mm-hmm." John wondered if she'd ever cut up a giant box for her own children to play with. Maybe Sherlock had wanted a pirate ship. "Rosie, go sit with Granny Hudson for a minute while I use the knife, all right?"

He spent the next hour alternating between cutting chunks of cardboard off the box following Rosie's specifications and helping put together the glider, until Sherlock finally tossed down the Allen key in frustration, not with the construction of the chair, which was not particularly difficult, but with his mother and Mrs. Hudson.

"Thank you both for your concern, but I believe I can finish assembling this without an audience. Mummy, I understand your urge to come visit Eve, but don't you think you need to leave soon if you want to make it home at a reasonable time tonight?"

"Oh, I'm not leaving."

"I told her she could use my spare bedroom when I called her this morning," Mrs. Hudson said. 

"Of course, I accepted immediately. It's only a single bed, so that's why Daddy didn't come with me today. We weren't sure if you'd be using the bedroom upstairs, John?"

"Erm, no, actually," John said, then gasped slightly as Rosie propelled herself out of the box that was now a car and into his chest. "I have to work tomorrow, and if I want to be functional, I need to get some more sleep than I did here last night. Plus, this little one has been away from home since yesterday morning." 

"Oh, but she's so well-behaved! I remember all of my children were little terrors whenever their routines were upset. Rosie's always a good girl though, aren't you, Rosie?"

Rosie buried her head against John, again refusing to acknowledge that Mrs. Holmes was talking to her. John gently pried her away and got her to sit on his lap facing out, which was about as much as he could hope for. Mrs. Holmes was right though—she was generally a well-behaved child, though he imagined most children were, compared to what Sherlock, Mycroft and Eurus must have been like. 

"Well, it's a good thing Sherlock won't be alone tonight, just in case he needs any help with the baby," Mrs. Holmes said. "I'll be here to lend a hand, and I'll tell Daddy he can join us tomorrow if he likes, and Mrs. Hudson is here, too. Oh, we'll have a whole little family to help you, won't we, Sherlock?

"I won't need any help, Mummy." Sherlock waved his right hand dismissively. "There's really no need for you to stay here, and you certainly don't need to drag Daddy down here."

"Nonsense. Your father wants to meet the baby, too. Now, what can I do today to help out? Laundry? Dusting?"

"He won't let you dust." Mrs. Hudson settled back against the sofa with a smug smile.

"You know what you could do to help?" John said. "Go out to the shops and get some baby supplies. Wiggins brought nappies and a few rompers yesterday, and I'm going to look for some of Rosie's hand-me-downs when I go home tonight, but Eve will still need some things of her own."

Mrs. Holmes's brow wrinkled for a moment, then she clapped her hands together. "A proper bassinet and a wooden cot instead of that travel one she's in now. Oh, and a pram! It's a shame I didn't know Eurus was expecting. I could have had everything ready beforehand."

"We'll want to buy her some new clothes," Mrs. Hudson added. 

"Yes, Rosie's hand-me-downs are bound to have stains on them." Mrs. Holmes stood up and began to gather the tea cups onto the tray. A few minutes later, she and Mrs. Hudson were on their way out of the flat, still chatting excitedly about what they wanted to buy for Eve. John didn't bother giving them the list he had started to make earlier. He suspected Sherlock wouldn't be happy with half of what they bought, but at least it got them out of the flat for a while. 

"Thank God. I thought they would never leave." Sherlock dropped down onto the sofa and put his arms out to allow Rosie to climb onto his lap. "I can't believe my mother thinks I need her to stay and help me. I'm a 40-year-old man."

"It's pretty common for grandmothers to come help out when there's a new baby, Sherlock. I don't think she thinks you can't handle it. She's just trying to be helpful. Babies really are a lot of work."

As if on cue, they heard a squeal come from down the hall. John would have to remember to dig out Rosie's old baby monitor, unless Mrs. Hudson and Mrs. Holmes came back from the shops with a new one. 

Sherlock attempted to stand up, but Rosie whined when he tried to move her.

"I'll get her," John said, and took longer than he would have liked to pull himself to his feet from where he'd been sitting on the floor. Wasn't having a child supposed to keep him young?

He went and got Eve out of the cot and gave her a dry nappy, then brought her into the living room. "You want to hold her while I get a bottle ready?"

"Sure." Sherlock sat up straighter on the sofa, and Rosie reluctantly moved to sit next to him.

"I want to hold her." She looked up at Sherlock with eyes that John knew were impossible to resist.

"You can help me hold her," Sherlock replied, and carefully took Eve from John, arranging her so her weight was on his lap but Rosie could slide her hands beneath her shoulders and feet.

It went well for about thirty seconds, long enough for John to put some formula into a clean bottle but not long enough for him to actually warm it up. 

"No!" Rosie shouted. "Don't like her! Stinky!"

"She's not stinky. She just got a new nappy."

"No!" Rosie shouted louder and popped off the sofa to run into the kitchen to John. "Daddy, I want to go home. Don't want a baby sister!"

"Oh, Rosie, sweetheart. Don't say that." He squatted down to speak to her at her level. "I think you're just tired because you missed your nap today." And he couldn't put her down to sleep in her travel cot, because that was where Eve was, and there was little chance that she would stay in bed if he took her to the bedroom upstairs and left her there alone. 

"Not tired! Want to go home!"

"Okay. All right. That's probably a good idea." He sighed and stood up again, then lifted her into his arms and went back out into the living room. "I think we've hit a wall here, Sherlock. I need to take her home." She would probably fall asleep in the car on the way. 

"Go ahead." Sherlock stood up, bringing Eve to his shoulder. "I've got everything under control here, and hopefully my mother will stay out with Mrs. Hudson for hours yet."

"Are you sure?" John didn't want to abandon him, but he did want to get home and have a shower. 

"I said I was. Please don't you start doubting me, too."

"I won't—I'm not." John shifted Rosie in his arms; her head was already starting to droop. "I know you'll be fine with Eve. Your mother, I'm not so sure you can handle, but you can always banish her to Mrs. Hudson's flat." 

"Yes." John had meant it as a joke, but Sherlock sounded serious. For a moment, at least. "And I'll text you if I have any real problems, and you can offer me all the fatherly wisdom you've gained over the last two years."

John grinned. "Sounds good. Eve won't let you forget to feed her, but make sure you remember to eat some dinner yourself."

"I have my mother and Mrs. Hudson staying in the same building, John. Do you think I'm likely to go hungry?"

"No, I guess not. All right. Well, then—"

"Daddy, go home! Now." Rosie's demand was sleepy but determined.

"Yes, yes. We're going home. Say goodbye to Sherlock and Eve. We'll come see them again in a couple of days."

"Bye, Sh'wock," Rosie said, and stuck her tongue out at Eve. She was a well-behaved child. Most of the time. At least her behaviour was age-appropriate, he knew—no child enjoyed being replaced as the centre of attention when a new baby was born. Sherlock had no doubt done the same thing when his parents had come home from hospital with his new baby sister. Not a particularly comforting thought, but there it was.

John set Rosie down so he could gather up their belongings, and a few minutes later they left the flat together, leaving Sherlock and Eve alone for the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote a short, fluffy quarantine massage fic if you're looking for something sweet to read! [Skin, Touch, Feel](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26672032)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning: this is the chapter that finally starts to earn the fic's Explicit rating, though only for a couple of paragraphs. :)

Rosie was in a much better mood after she napped in the car; she spent the rest of the day helping John sort through her old baby clothes and toys to see what they could pass on to Eve. Well, John did the sorting while Rosie played with the toys and pronounced each item of clothing either "good for baby" or "too ugwy." He did learn that she was still terrified of a plastic owl with spinning eyes that Mrs. Hudson had given her after Mary died. John tucked it away beneath a pile of winter clothes that would be too small for Eve by the time it got cold again—he would donate the lot of them when he got a chance.

She went to bed without any problems, and after doing the washing up and packing lunches for tomorrow, John finally got to have the shower he'd been craving. When he was done, he stopped on his way down the hall and stood in Rosie's doorway, watching her sleep, not in a cot but in the big-girl bed she'd been so proud to move into last winter. The cot was in pieces in the attic; he'd have to check if Sherlock needed it or if his mother had already bought a new one.

He went back into his bedroom and picked up his phone from where he'd left it to charge. He'd missed a text at some point, not from a number that he knew. 

_Thanks for the help yesterday, Doctor Watson. -E_

Eurus. Before he could second-guess himself, he opened his contacts list and hit Mycroft's name. 

Mycroft answered on the second ring. "You have to work tomorrow, Dr. Watson. Shouldn't you be asleep by now?"

"Eurus sent me a text."

"Did she? So, this is the new game she's playing." Mycroft let out a long sigh. "How tedious."

"Tedious? Mycroft, it wasn't from a number that I recognised, but you can track the phone and find her."

"If only life were really that easy. She'll have used a burner phone and disposed of it. Or borrowed one from some unsuspecting bystander. We would waste resources chasing after it only to discover that she's long gone—you have learned about the ability to schedule a text now, haven't you, John?"

"Yes, but—" John knew Mycroft was right, and he would have realised it himself if he'd stopped to think for a moment before calling him. "You still have to try. Maybe she slipped up. She must still be exhausted from giving birth, and the hormones could be making her foggy-headed."

"Yes, yes." Another sigh. "Send me the number she used and I will have it tracked. I'm sure Anthea won't mind working late on a Sunday night."

"Thank you." John ended the call and dropped his phone back onto its charging station, echoing Mycroft's sigh. Eurus had been free for ten months; she was unlikely to slip up now. And she wouldn't risk her freedom simply to send him a text. But now was probably also the best opportunity Mycroft would have to catch her, before she had time to get further away. Well, yesterday or this morning would have been the best time to catch her, he supposed, but he'd let Sherlock call the shots on that, hadn't he? 

Sherlock. John's loyalty was normally to him, of course, just not in this one particular matter. And Sherlock knew where he stood when it came to Eurus being out of prison. So why did he feel guilty for calling Mycroft instead of Sherlock when she'd texted him?

He picked up his phone again and sat down on the bed, debated sending a text, then decided that Sherlock deserved a call, as well. He should check in on him anyway, to see how it was going with Eve and his mother.

"Hey," he said, when Sherlock picked up. "Didn't wake you or the baby, did I?"

"No. Eve's asleep, but I've got my phone set to vibrate. Mummy's been texting me incessantly from downstairs but if I don't reply she comes up here in person so she can share whatever inane thought has crossed her mind."

"Ah, sorry about that. You haven't heard from Eurus at all, have you?"

"No. Why? Have you? You did, didn't you?"

"She texted me. Nothing bad. She actually thanked me for helping her." 

"Oh. She must have used a burner phone. She won't be caught that easily."

"Yeah, that's what Mycroft said. Sorry, I phoned him first. It's just—"

"I understand, John. We'll have to agree to disagree on matters of Eurus."

"Agree to disagree? Sherlock, she could be out murdering people right now."

"She could be. I don't think she is. But I understand your point of view, and Mycroft's, much as I hate to admit it. I just happen to hold a different opinion."

John gritted his teeth together. A different opinion was when one person wanted Thai and the other preferred Italian for dinner. This was more than that.

"But thank you," Sherlock continued. "For standing up to Mycroft when he wanted to take Eve away. I know you must have your doubts about whether I can raise her."

"What? No, I don't have any doubts about that, Sherlock. I know you'll be able to take care of her. I've seen you with Rosie." He pushed aside the lingering memory of Sherlock panicking this morning before he revealed that he'd had cocaine hidden in his flat for the past two years. 

"I—thank you, John. And I'm sorry about the cocaine. I'll do better, I promise."

And Sherlock had read his mind anyway. Of course. "All right. I believe you, Sherlock. And I think you're going to be an excellent father. Definitely not a boring old dad like some kids have."

He could almost hear Sherlock's laugh, a small puff of air through the phone. "I will strive to make her life interesting."

"Not too interesting, though."

"If it gets too interesting, then I'm sure you'll step in to put a stop to all the fun, John."

Now John laughed. "Okay. I'll be the boring dad," he said, and bit at his lip at the realisation that he'd made it sound as if they would be dads together. Sherlock didn't seem to notice. John swallowed and changed the subject. "Oh, I meant to ask. Did your mum and Mrs. Hudson buy a full-sized cot today? Because if they didn't, I can pull out Rosie's from storage."

"They did, yes. A white one. I would have gone with a natural wood tone, but at least they didn't opt for pink. It's being delivered tomorrow—they paid to have it set up, as if I couldn't do it myself."

"I'm sure they knew you could. They watched you put together the glider today—you don't really want a repeat of that, anyway, do you?"

"I want Mummy to go home and Mrs. Hudson to only come upstairs if she's been baking and is inclined to share, but we can't always get what we want, can we?"

John chuckled. "No, I guess not," he said.

"No," Sherlock agreed, and let out a sigh to rival Mycroft's earlier ones. "Well, it's getting late. I should let you go, so you can get some sleep tonight."

"Yeah, I probably should go to bed soon." 

"Good night, John. Erm—tell Rosie that Eve and I miss her."

"Rosie's been asleep since eight, Sherlock."

"Right, right. Of course. Okay. Good night, John. Ah, I hope you have a good day at work tomorrow."

"Night, Sherlock." John frowned at the phone as he rang off. Sherlock had sounded a bit wistful at the end, there, as if he wanted to keep talking but thought John wanted to go. 

John wouldn't have minded if they'd kept talking, though he knew he should get some sleep. But that was always how it was, wasn't it? He was willing to do almost anything, as long as Sherlock was involved.

And whose fault was that? Sherlock's, for being so damn magnetic? Or John's, for not being able to control his own desires? But he had been controlling himself, for years, since the day they met. That control had slipped, just the tiniest bit, over the last two days—understandable, he thought, given everything that had happened. He'd been too concerned with Eurus and the new baby to remember to keep himself in check. He'd have to be careful, get himself back under control again. Which meant he'd have to stop thinking about how it had felt yesterday, to have Sherlock's arms around him while he was panicking on the kitchen floor. Or how it had been even better today, to lean into the weight of Sherlock's hand on his back as they held Rosie together. Thank God she had been there, or John might not have been able to stop himself from pulling Sherlock into his arms for a kiss.

Even now, he imagined he could still feel Sherlock's hand, pressing just above his waist, heat radiating out from his touch to warm John's whole body. He set his phone back on the charger and let his slippers drop off his feet onto the floor, then swung his legs up onto the bed. Rosie was asleep and the door to his room was closed. Still. He pushed the duvet down so he could slip beneath it, then pulled it up to his chest before letting his hand drift down to his waistband.

Since Mary had died, this had been all he'd had; Mycroft had been right about that. Just him and his hand, and he usually tried not to let his mind wander to places it shouldn't as he took care of himself. But tonight, he would allow himself a fantasy, just this once. It wouldn't hurt anything, and it might help him keep his urges in check during the day. For now, he could let himself think about what would happen if Sherlock were to climb into bed next to him. If they slowly undressed each other until there were no more clothes between them. Sherlock would be flushed, now, if they were in bed together, his skin warm to the touch. 

John slipped his hand beneath the waistband of his pants, relishing the coolness of his fingers against the flesh there. He stroked lightly along his cock and then took himself more firmly in hand, shoving his pants down, out of the way. He would take Sherlock in his other hand, if Sherlock let him. Or maybe Sherlock would take over for them both—he did like to be in charge. Yes, it would be Sherlock's hand on John's cock, now, his long fingers sliding up and down, faster and faster, with just the right amount of force. He closed his eyes and pressed his head back into his pillow, trying to imagine what it would feel like, how much more it would be than just him here alone. Sherlock, in bed next to him. Two cocks, hard and slick. The narrative he was telling himself slipped, losing its coherency. Hands, moving, faster. Sherlock. Both of them, together. Now. 

He sucked in a great gulp of air, his back arching up from the mattress as he came, the underside of the duvet catching his spill. He dropped his head back onto the pillow and waited until he caught his breath, then pulled his hand out from beneath the covers. If he didn't think about it, the wet spot on the duvet wouldn't bother him, and he had no one else who would complain about the state of his bed linens. Now he simply wanted to sleep, mind calmed and body sated. For now.

He woke in the morning to a new voicemail from Mycroft, informing him that the phone Eurus had used had been found in a cab in Croydon—it belonged to the cab driver, who had worked a ten-hour shift yesterday, driving back and forth across London, including two trips to the airport. Eurus must have been in his cab at some point, but the driver didn't recall losing track of his phone at any time during his shift. Of course. John groaned and dragged himself out of bed, only to find Rosie in the living room, lying on her back on a playmat designed for a six-month-old.

"Wake up, Daddy!" she called, and kicked the mat with both feet at once, setting off a round of tinny music.

"I'm awake," he said, and turned and went back into his bedroom to get dressed before he had to get her ready for the day. 

Mondays were always the busiest at the surgery, and today was no exception. He didn't finish with the last of his patients until after six o'clock, but Zoe, who minded Rosie during the week, was accustomed to the unpredictability of his schedule and didn't blink when he was late picking her up. She was, however, surprised by the news that Rosie had shared with her that day.

"Rosie said she has a new baby sister?" Zoe's brow furrowed as she opened the door to let John into her flat. 

"Oh, ha, yeah, that." John stepped past her and rubbed at his chin, looking around for Rosie. "Not really. I mean, I don't have a new baby. It's a—friend of the family. A close friend. So, the baby's like a sister. Rosie, uh, is just calling her that because she doesn't really understand."

"Oh, I see." Zoe looked relieved. "That makes more sense, since I know it's just you. I mean, you aren't married or anything. Sorry. Anyway, she was good today. Except she didn't fall asleep during nap time. She was looking at books quietly, but she just never went to sleep. She should go to bed early for you, I'm sure."

John nodded, grateful that she didn't pursue the topic of what close friend of his might now have a baby. God, what was going to happen once the media found out that Sherlock Holmes had a child? He shook his head and called Rosie's name, and a moment later she came trotting out of the living room, holding Mr. Bear in her arms. 

She was quiet on the drive home, which only took a few minutes, but when they got to their house, she braced her feet against the back of the seat in front of her and tried to prevent John from unbuckling her from the car seat. "I wanna go see Sh'wock and the baby, Daddy!"

"I'm sorry sweetie, not today. Maybe we can go for a visit tomorrow."

Rather than arguing with him, Rosie burst into tears, a clear sign that she was overtired. If he tried to take her to Baker Street now, they would have at least 30 more minutes of travel, and they still wouldn't have had dinner, which would make her even more miserable. And he really wanted her to be in a good mood the next time she saw Eve, after her meltdown before they left yesterday.

He got her out of the car and carried her into the house only to have her cry even harder when she saw the boxes of items they'd gathered together to pass on to Eve.

"Mine!" She pulled the plastic baby bath from one of the boxes, sending a pile of smaller objects that had been inside it cascading out of the box. "My bath! Not for baby."

"Oh, Rosie, you're much too big for that," John said. "It's only for little babies who can't even sit up yet."

"Not for baby," she repeated, and sat down in it, arms crossed over her chest. The end of the tub hit her at the knees, leaving her lower legs and feet to dangle over the edge.

John sighed. "Okay, I won't put it back in the box," he said. Maybe by the time he was ready to bring everything to Baker Street, tomorrow or the day after, she would have forgotten about it. 

He reheated leftovers from their Friday night dinner and Rosie ate everything he gave her—at least she wasn't as picky an eater as some toddlers. In fact, she was less fussy about what she ate than Sherlock was, though she liked sugar just as much. When they were done eating, he made sure to lure her upstairs immediately with the promise of reading her favourite Thomas the Tank Engine book, even though he hated reading Thomas the Tank Engine. It worked, though—she ran to her room without a second glance at the pile of baby items in the living room.

After a quick bath, she got into her pyjamas and John lay down next to her on her bed to read the book. She fell asleep halfway through it. He rolled onto his back on the tiny sliver of mattress he was allowed and let the book drop carefully to the floor. If he'd had another six inches of space, he would have closed his eyes and gone to sleep right there himself, but he didn't want to disturb her by trying to move her closer to the wall. And he still had things to do before he slept: the washing up from dinner, laundry since he hadn't been here on Saturday when he normally did it, not to mention having a shower himself. 

He'd finished up his chores and shower and was finally headed to bed himself when his phone chimed with a text. Usually only Sherlock would text him at this time of night, but it wasn't his alert. Was it Eurus, again? He opened the message. 

_Please don't leave Sherlock on his own. I think he can do it, but not by himself. Our family's not good at this sort of thing. -E_

Yes, it was her. Was she watching him and Sherlock, so she knew that John hadn't seen him today? Or maybe she'd just decided to text him every day as some sort of game, as Mycroft had implied. Was this going to be a daily routine? Maybe it was karmic retribution for all the nights he'd ignored Mary and Rosie and spent his time texting Eurus when he'd known her only as E, the girl who'd smiled at him on the bus.

He closed the message app and ran his finger over the screen of his phone. There was no point in letting Mycroft know, and while he was tempted to call Sherlock, he didn't want him to think he was checking up on him. And he certainly couldn't tell him what Eurus had said, or let him know that she didn't have full confidence in his ability to care for Eve. Though it would be nice to hear his voice. John closed his eyes for a moment. No. They'd gone more than a day without speaking to each other before—they'd gone two years. John would give him a call tomorrow afternoon; maybe he could bring dinner to Baker Street if he got out of work at a reasonable time.

He didn't let himself masturbate that night. He knew if he did, he'd think about Sherlock again, and that wasn't something he wanted to develop into a regular habit. Eventually Sherlock might deduce what he was doing, even though he had never seemed to be able to observe John's interest in him before.

The next morning, he wasn't as well-rested as he would have liked to be, but Rosie was cheerful and he could drink as much coffee as he needed to in between patients. By noon he'd had enough caffeine that he was both wide awake and in a good mood. He was definitely going to bring takeaway over to Sherlock after he picked up Rosie—he'd just have to check to see if Sherlock's mother was still there, and if his father had joined her, so he would know how much food to get.

While he was in with his second patient of the afternoon, his phone beeped with a text. Sherlock's tone. As soon as he finished explaining to Mrs. Tucker how to take her blood pressure medicine and sent her on her way, he pulled his phone from his pocket. 

_I need your help. -SH_

A text, not a call. Sherlock had called him when Eurus had shown up—did that mean this time it wasn't an emergency? Or had he just known John was unable to answer the phone if he was with a patient? He probably had some minor issue with his mother, or was on a quest to find a better way to sterilise Eve's bottles. The fact that he hadn't followed up his plea for help with any details was a bit disturbing, though. 

John let his nurse know that he needed a few minutes before his next patient. It would be quicker to call Sherlock than return his text, since he could get an immediate response rather than waiting for a reply. And Sherlock did answer, on the first ring.

"John."

"Hey, what's going on?" John leaned back in his chair. 

"I need your help."

"Yeah, you said. With what? The baby? Your mum?"

"No, no. Nothing like that. Eve is napping and I sent Mummy home this morning." 

"Then—is it Eurus? Is she back?" He sat up straight, all the fear he'd felt when Sherlock had first phoned him three days ago flooding back.

"No, not Eurus. No. It's not—it's only me here, John. Eve is asleep. And I need your help. It's important. Will you come?"

John glanced at his computer screen, which listed the rest of the day's schedule. Another dozen appointments, most of which could be handled by someone else, though he would owe his colleagues a favour. "Let me just get through these next two patients—"

"I don't have anything in the flat."

John froze. "Sorry, what?"

"There's nothing in the flat. That I can take. At the moment. And I'm glad there isn't, but—"

"Sherlock, are you saying you want to get high?" 

"I don't want to, no. But—it's difficult to resist." He paused, and John could hear him take a shuddering breath before he went on. "Can you come? Now?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I can come." He stood up, sending his office chair rolling backward, and bent down to grab his work satchel from where it sat beneath his desk. "I'm leaving now, Sherlock, all right? Just—hang on. I'll be there as soon as I can."


	8. Chapter 8

John raced to Baker Street, grateful it was early enough in the afternoon that traffic wasn't as heavy as it would be in a few hours. He knew he was driving too fast, but didn't care in the least. If he got stopped for speeding, he would follow Mrs. Hudson's lead and phone Mycroft to deal with the fallout. But no one stopped him and he didn't call Mycroft, because there was no need for him to know what was happening. Sherlock wasn't actually high yet—he had done the responsible thing and called for help when he'd been tempted. First time he'd ever done that, and John wasn't about to let him down.

He parked in the car park around the corner from the flat and ran down the street, phone in his hand, dialling Sherlock's number as he ran. No answer. Shit. One of Mycroft's goons was standing at the corner, a few houses down from 221. John gave him a two-fingered salute as he ran past. The man must have recognised him, because he didn't try to stop him when he reached the door and let himself into the building. Mrs. Hudson's door was closed—was she home? Sherlock hadn't gone to her for help, though. He'd called John.

John took a deep breath and started up the stairs. The door at the top was open; he wasn't sure how to interpret that. A welcome sign for him, or an indication that Sherlock had left the flat without bothering to shut it behind himself?

As John reached the top of the stairs, Sherlock stepped into view. Thank God. He must have been watching out the window for his arrival.

"John," he said, and clasped his hands behind his back. He stood in the middle of the room, wearing his dark blue dressing gown over a thin white t-shirt and a pair of grey pyjama bottoms.

John wasn't sure what he'd been expecting. Probably Sherlock curled in a ball on the sofa, not standing in the living room looking exactly the same as he did every day. John stepped into the flat, trying to catch his breath so Sherlock wouldn't see his panic, but he had to know, immediately. "Did you take anything?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No. No, I haven't. I told you I didn't have anything." He brought his hand up to his face and pressed his fist against his mouth and on second look, John could see all the cracks in his composure that a stranger might have missed. Wearing pyjamas in the middle of the day was normal, but he also had visible stubble on his chin and lip, which meant he'd gone at least two days without shaving, and the greasiness of his hair said he hadn't showered in that time, either. He was still a long way from the dishevelled mess he'd been the last time he'd trashed himself on drugs, but John didn't like the direction in which he seemed to be headed.

"Okay, yeah. All right. Good." John swallowed and stepped all the way into the flat, closing the door behind him. He shrugged out of his coat and tossed it on the old chair next to the door.

"You're short of breath," Sherlock said. "Did you run to get here?"

"Just from the car park, yeah." He motioned towards the street. "I tried calling you and you didn't answer, and I thought—"

"Oh." Sherlock put his hands into the pockets of his dressing gown and then drew them out again, still empty. "Sorry about that. I had to turn the sound off on my phone so it wouldn't wake Eve when I put it in her cot."

"Sorry, you did what with your phone?"

"I didn't put it near her, don't worry. I just needed it to be as far away from me as possible. And if I went into the bedroom to get it and saw her, I thought maybe it would stop me.... " He trailed off, swallowing.

"You thought it would stop you from calling Wiggins."

"Not Wiggins. He won't sell to me anymore."

"But you know others who will."

"Yes." Sherlock took a deep breath, then walked over to sit on the sofa, tucking his dressing gown neatly around himself. There was a baby monitor with a small video screen sitting on the table next to him. "It's been...difficult. Resisting. Thank you for coming."

"Er, yeah. I mean, it's no problem. Of course I came." He waved a hand between the two of them. "I've told you before I would, if you ever needed me at a time like this." Except of course for those weeks after Mary had died, when he wouldn't have come even if Sherlock had called him for help.

He made himself unclench his jaw and moved to sit down on the sofa, close enough to Sherlock that their legs almost touched. He wasn't sure exactly what he was supposed to do. Just sit here, and be a friend? Had his presence alone kept Sherlock from getting high in the past, without John even realising it? "So, erm. Do you want to...talk about it?"

"Not particularly, no." Sherlock's shoulders drooped and he leaned back against the sofa cushion, head touching the wall.

John waited a few seconds, because he knew what a silent Sherlock looked like, and this wasn't it.

Sure enough, a few seconds later, Sherlock lifted his head away from the wall, though he didn't turn to look at John. Instead, he began to fiddle with the tie of his dressing gown, wrapping it around his fingers and then releasing it as he spoke. "I wasn't expecting this. This...longing. I thought I'd be too busy. And I was. Yesterday was awful. I could take care of Eve, or I could deal with my mother, but I couldn't do both at once. Every time I turned around, Mummy was there, or Mrs. Hudson, telling me to let Eve cry, or to pick her up, or that I should be using cloth nappies or I was feeding her too often or not often enough. I thought, when I finally got Mummy to leave and Mrs. Hudson to leave me alone, it would all be okay. But it wasn't."

"What happened?" John prodded, when he didn't continue.

Sherlock shrugged, then shook his head. "Not any one incident in particular. That's why it's so frustrating." He made fists of his hands and pulled the dressing gown tie taut between them. "I was alone with Eve. She had a clean nappy. She drank a bottle and I burped her. She cried for a minute or two, no more, then fell asleep in my arms. So I put her in the cot. She wrinkled up her face as if she were about to wake up and cry again, so I put my hand on her chest, and she went to sleep more deeply. Then I left the bedroom, thinking I should have a shower and a shave, but instead I came out here and sat right here on this sofa and thought about getting high." 

"But you didn't."

"No. Not yet, at least."

"And you won't, because there's nothing in this flat, right?" John tried to keep his voice even.

"Nothing." Sherlock sighed and let himself fall back against the cushions again, the tie from his gown falling to drape across his thighs. "Though, for the record, you should never trust me when I say that."

"I know. I know." John closed his eyes and exhaled. He knew he couldn't trust an addict. He could never trust anyone, it seemed, and that seemed to apply doubly to the people he loved the most. But that was an issue he needed to work out on his own, or with his therapist, not something he should say aloud now. "Has it got any better over the last year? Since you've been clean. The cravings, I mean."

"It's much less frequent, now. Still intense. But maybe, someday...."

John wasn't sure if Sherlock meant that one day he thought his desire to get high would be less intense, or if he hoped to be able to indulge again someday. "You've done so well up until now, Sherlock. You can make it through today."

"Usually I remind myself how terrible detoxing is, and how I really do prefer to have functional kidneys. But today it's just been...." He shook his head. "I tried telling myself that I need to stay clean for Eve, but I wasn't sure if that was going to be a strong enough deterrent, so that's when I called you."

"You did the right thing. Just remember that you can always call me, okay?" John let his hand settle on Sherlock's leg, just above his knee, fairly certain that the gesture would be acceptable. They touched each other now, when the situation was dire enough.

Sherlock didn't react to his touch, but kept talking. "I just wish it weren't so hard. Staying clean. I used to tell myself I was in control, but…." He sighed. 

John nodded, though his understanding of addiction was mostly second-hand, gained from growing up with his father and Harry, and then of course from watching Sherlock himself. "Is there anything I can do to help? Distract you somehow?" As he said it, he remembered where his hand was. Not the sort of distraction Sherlock would be interested in, unfortunately. He cleared his throat and casually leaned back against the sofa cushion, letting his hand slip off of Sherlock's leg.

"I don't—I don't think there's anything you can do. I'm not going to try to run out to buy anything, so you won't need to physically restrain me."

"I wouldn't do that, anyway."

"Really?" Sherlock turned slightly towards him, frowning. "Oh. You mean that, don't you?" He lifted one hand and rubbed at the stubble on his jaw. "Yes, of course, otherwise we'd already have got to the point where you hit me by now."

"Sherlock!" John drew his hands in even closer to himself, edging away from him on the sofa. "I wouldn't—I promised myself and I've really been working on...." He stopped and started again, voice lower. "Do you have any idea how many hours I've spent in therapy dealing with the fact that I hit you when you couldn't fight back?"

"No, I don't. It's not exactly something we discuss, is it?"

John held his gaze for a moment, then looked away. "No. But I am sorry."

"I know." Sherlock's whole body rocked as he nodded. "And I know you're here to help me, and I do appreciate it." He rubbed his hands along his thighs, fingers sliding over the smooth fabric.

John had to force himself to look away again. He could do this. He could sit next to Sherlock and see those long fingers drifting up and down his thighs without dreaming about what else those fingers could do. Or, maybe he didn't have to sit here. "Tea," he said, and stood up. "You need some tea. And maybe some lunch?"

Sherlock's nose wrinkled. "Just tea. Unless you agree that biscuits are lunch."

John smiled in relief. "I'll allow it, if you don't tell Rosie."

The routine of making the tea helped John collect himself, and as they sat together at the kitchen table with the plate of biscuits and teapot between them, he could see that the mere act of eating and drinking was helping Sherlock cope, as well.

John had just poured himself a second cup when they heard a soft cry coming in stereo from the baby monitor and Sherlock's bedroom. Before John could even set his cup down, Sherlock was on his feet, shaking his dressing gown into place around himself. "I'll get her. She's had a good three hours of sleep, so she's probably wet and hungry."

John watched him go, appreciating both the view as Sherlock walked away and how easily he had fallen into the role of tending to Eve. He was going to be a good father, as long as he could keep himself clean, and John would do everything he could to help him with that. He finished off his tea, took one more small biscuit and then got up to clear the dishes they had used. He'd make sure they ate something better for dinner, at least.

Sherlock came out of the bedroom a few minutes later with Eve, who was dressed in a pale cream-coloured romper covered in a tiny floral pattern.

"Hey there, little sweetie," John said. "Look at you. Did Gran buy you some new clothes?" He grinned at her, then looked at Sherlock. "I can hold her for a minute while you finish your tea."

Sherlock passed her over and took his tea cup over to the worktop to sip while he prepared a bottle of formula.

John held her upright against his shoulder, cradling the back of her head while she mouthed at the collar of his shirt. "Don't worry. Daddy's getting your bottle ready. Oh, I forgot how it feels to hold someone so tiny."

"She's lost eight ounces, which is six percent of her birthweight, but I've checked and that's well within normal range."

"Yeah, she'll gain it right back in the next week or so. You don't need to weigh her every day, as long as she looks and acts healthy and is eating well. She's very alert and responsive."

Sherlock took her back from John, and they moved into the living room so Sherlock could sit in his chair while he fed her the bottle. When she'd finished drinking and emitted a tiny, satisfied burp, he put her into the baby swing that had been set up near the window. She was dwarfed by the size of it, but Sherlock reclined it nearly flat, tightened the belts and buckles so she was secure and set it to the lowest speed.

John watched her as she waved her arms and legs, not really able to interact with the toys attached to the swing, but clearly engaged by them all the same. With a bit of pale afternoon sunlight coming in through the window behind her, he noticed something he hadn't seen before. He got up from his chair and knelt on the floor next to the swing so he could take a closer look. "I think she might have a touch of jaundice, Sherlock. She looks a bit yellow here in the natural light." He sat back on his heels and made a silly face at Eve.

"Sorry, what?" Sherlock swooped in and squeezed between John and the swing, putting his hand on the button to stop its motion. "Jaundice?"

"It's very common, nothing to worry about. Rosie had a little bit of it, after she was born. She should see a paediatrician soon, anyway, and they can test her for it. Probably won't even need to be treated." He nodded towards the window. "Letting her sit in the sunlight like this might help, too."

"But I—I didn't even notice. How did you?"

"You've been around her constantly. I haven't seen her for a couple of days, so it's easier for me to notice the change in her skin tone."

"She doesn't look yellow to me."

"Here, watch." John pressed his thumb lightly against Eve's forehead and then lifted it. "See the difference?"

Sherlock made a noncommittal sound and reached out to repeat the experiment John had just done. "How did I not notice?"

"It's okay, Sherlock. Not a failure on your part." John stood up but Sherlock stayed where he was, on his knees next to the swing, looking as if he wanted to pick Eve up again but was afraid to do so.

John frowned. He hadn't meant to call Sherlock's parenting skills into question. He reached out and pushed the button to start the swing moving again. "Oh, there's a music setting, too." He slid the switch over and winced at the shrill sound that began to play. "Ah, sorry, you probably don't want her to grow up thinking that's music, do you?" He smiled, trying to lighten the mood, but Sherlock didn't follow suit.

"I don't think I can do this, John." Sherlock dropped backwards to sit on the floor next to the swing.

"What? No, Sherlock. It's okay, really. You're doing fine. Eve is thriving. Look at her." The music may have been painful to his ears, but Eve was responding to it, flailing her arms and legs even more enthusiastically than she had before. "She's aware of her surroundings and responding to them already."

"Yes, she's going to be brilliant, I know. If she can survive having me as a father."

"Come on, Sherlock. Give yourself a break. You're doing as well as any new parent. Better, really, because most parents get some warning that they're about to have a child and have time to prepare. You just suddenly had a baby dropped on you."

Sherlock shook his head, sliding away from the swing until he hit the back of his chair. He pulled his knees up to his chest, clasping the fabric of his pyjama bottoms so tightly in his fists that John thought it would rip. "I'm not good at these ordinary things that most people can do. You know that. Why would you think I can do this?"

John thought of the text Eurus had sent him yesterday, saying much the same thing, but they were both wrong. "I know you can do this. I've seen you with my own child, and I know you're capable of love and affection and that's all you really need in the end."

"No. I can't. I don't know how."

"You do." John knelt down beside him again and carefully reached out with one hand to touch Sherlock's chin. "Look at me. You're doing fine."

Sherlock did look at him for a second, then leaned away from John's touch. "I'm sorry, John. I'm sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry for, Sherlock." He let his hand fall to his side.

"Putting aside the fact that I didn't notice when she started to turn yellow right in front of me, the moment I was left alone with her, I wanted to get high. How can I possibly be a good father to her?"

"But you didn't get high. You recognised the problem and called for help."

"Maybe I should get high. Shoot up and let Mycroft find out. He can take her away, let her grow up with a normal family that's better equipped to raise her. And if I'm high enough, I won't even mind when you leave."

"Sherlock. I'm not going to leave you." He shifted so they were sitting next to each other on the floor, then leaned in closer and drew Sherlock sideways into his arms. He'd seen Sherlock in distress before, but he'd never tried to comfort him like this, though Sherlock had now done it several times for him. Why? What had been stopping him?

Sherlock's body went stiff in his arms for a moment, then he slumped to the side, leaning into the embrace. "This shouldn't be so hard. Why is this so hard?"

"I don't know. But it is. Not just for you. It feels that way to me, too, sometimes. To all parents. But not all the time. And it will get easier, I promise."

"I can't—"

"You can. And I'll help you. You don't have to do it alone." 

Sherlock pulled away, just a bit, and turned his head so they were facing each other. For a split-second, as their eyes met, John would've sworn he saw in Sherlock's face the same flicker of longing that he himself felt. But it was just his imagination, of course, projecting his own desires.

A moment later, Sherlock dropped his gaze, then slipped out of John's embrace. "I—I appreciate your confidence in me, John. And thank you for your help." He wrapped his arms around his legs again and shivered, though John didn't think it was cold in the flat.

John slid further away from him so he could pull himself to his feet. "I really have to stop sitting on the floor. One day I won't be able to get up." He twisted his torso in each direction, stretching his back.

Sherlock didn't move from where he sat. He was watching Eve, who was still in the swing, but rapidly becoming less enamoured of its music and motion and starting to fuss.

John stepped over and switched off the motor and sound, then unbuckled her and lifted her into his arms.

"I—I can take her." Sherlock got to his feet, pulling his dressing gown closed around his waist. "Although I expect she'll be falling asleep again shortly. She hasn't stayed awake for longer than an hour yet."

"Normal," John said.

"I know."

"I know you know. Because despite what you may think, I know you're already a good father. You're probably over-Googling everything about babies but that's okay because you do better when you have as much information as possible. Just don't forget to trust your instincts, too."

Sherlock shook his head. "That is definitely not advice you want to give me." He took Eve from John's hands and cradled her in one arm, lowering his head to murmur gentle words as he began to sway from side-to-side.

John left them alone, going into the kitchen to tidy up. Knowing Sherlock, he probably thought that John's declaration that he would help raise Eve meant that he would come over and clean the flat while Sherlock entertained both her and Rosie. And that would be fine, wouldn't it? Although it would be easier if he lived here. It wasn't the first time he'd considered the possibility of moving back to Baker Street, and now there was even more incentive to do so. He'd give Sherlock a little bit more time to adjust, then ask him what he thought about the idea.

While he was washing the dishes they'd used, Sherlock passed through the kitchen on his way to put Eve back down in her cot.

"She's sound asleep," Sherlock said, when he returned. "Mummy says Mycroft stopped sleeping and started crying constantly at around three weeks, but that Eurus and I were never a problem until we reached our first birthday. I'm not sure how much of that is true. She got pregnant again only a few months after I was born, and it's bound to have affected her memory."

John raised his eyebrows, but elected not to start a conversation about the collective memories of the Holmes family and Sherlock's childhood.

"Anyway," Sherlock continued. "You should probably go pick up Rosie soon, shouldn't you?"

"Oh, er, yeah." John glanced at his watch. "I—I should. Will you be all right alone for a bit? I was planning to pick up dinner and bring it back here, if you'd like me to."

"Yes, that would be good. And I'll be okay, I promise. I'll call you if I have any more...urges."

"Yes, or you could call downstairs to Mrs. Hudson."

"I'm not sure Mrs. Hudson is the best person to help me manage my addiction."

John gave him a small smile. "She'll help you, though. She knows what you've been through."

"And she has diazepam tablets in her bathroom cabinet."

"Don't steal any of Mrs. Hudson's medications, all right?" He paused. "Though it might be worth thinking about if you want to get your own prescription. Just a few pills, a low dose. Might help take the edge off when you're really desperate." He was certain that Sherlock would meet any clinical definition of anxiety, and it would be better for him to have a legitimate way to treat it when he needed to instead of self-medicating.

Sherlock sighed. "I'll consider it. Now, go. Fetch Rosie and return to me." His grin seemed real, and John's own anxiety eased considerably.

"Okay. Should be back within an hour, maybe a little more, with the traffic now. I'll hurry."

"I promise I can manage an hour without you, John." Sherlock strode through the kitchen and flopped down onto the sofa, as dramatic and appealing as ever. "I might have a nap. 'Sleep when the baby sleeps' is the current advice, I'm told."

John followed him out into the living room, then had to fight off a sudden, ridiculous urge to lean over and kiss him goodbye before he left. Instead, he grabbed his coat from the chair by the door and hurried out of the flat.

He was outside on the pavement before he had second thoughts. He knew better. He shouldn't leave Sherlock alone. Even though he didn't think he would get high while he was gone, he owed it to him to stay at his side. Someone needed to pick up Rosie, yes, but Molly would do that for him—and for Sherlock. They'd both done everything they could to help him get clean after the Culverton Smith case, and she would understand what John needed to do now.

She was still at work, but answered her phone immediately. "Is it a danger night?" she asked, when he told her he didn't want to leave Baker Street.

"Erm, it was a danger afternoon. I think he's past it, now, but I don't want to leave him. Even though I think he's okay, I just don't want to leave him." He wasn't explaining himself well. "I don't want to treat him like he's an interruption in the rest of my life, something I just have to deal with and then abandon, you know? I want him to know I'm here for him." Now he sounded sentimental, but he thought Molly would understand.

"Okay, I can get Rosie for you. She'll eat pizza, right?"

"She'll eat anything, but you don't have to feed her."

"I was going to stop and get it on my way home, so I don't mind picking her up first. I'll bring her back to my place and then you can let me know if you're going to come get her later, or if I should bring her over there. I can't keep her overnight, I have to work early tomorrow."

"No, that's fine. That's perfect. Thank you, Molly. I'll let you know what's going on, and if I can't get there by seven, you can bring her here. Any later than that and she'll start to get cranky."

"I know. I've seen cranky Rosie. I'll get her back to you before that happens." She giggled. "Say hi to Sherlock for me, all right? I hope he's okay."

"He will be," John said. "Thank you." He rang off and tucked his phone into his pocket. So. Rosie was sorted. He turned around and let himself back into the building, then climbed the stairs slowly, wondering how to make sure Sherlock understood that he wasn't staying because he didn't trust him, but simply because he was trying to be a better friend.

He reached the upper landing and gave a quick rap on the door, then pushed it open, knowing he hadn't locked it when he'd left. "Sherlock?" He took one step through the door and stopped dead in his tracks.

Sherlock was still on the sofa, though not just as John had left him a minute or two ago. No. He was stretched out on his back, dressing gown untied and billowing open around him. He had his t-shirt rucked up and his trousers pushed down and was holding his fully erect cock in his right hand. "John!"

John stared back at him. His mouth fell open but every coherent thought had flown from his head. Sherlock. On the sofa. Cock in his hand. "What—what are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing?" Sherlock snapped. He brought his left hand up to cover himself, though he was large enough that John could still see.

"I—I thought you didn't do this sort of thing." His own hand was still on the doorknob; he wasn't sure if his legs would support him if he let go.

"Clearly, I do. Why are you back here again?"

"I, erm, didn't want to leave you alone, so I asked Molly to pick up Rosie." He waved his free hand over his shoulder, towards the staircase. "I mean, I knew you'd be okay, but—"

"I'd be much better if I were by myself rather than having you standing there staring at my penis."

"Sorry, sorry." John turned around but didn't go back through the door. Instead, he repeated, "I thought you didn't do this sort of thing."

"Excuse me for once more failing and being human."

"No, no! That's not—" He gave a quick peek over his shoulder then once more faced away, at a complete loss as to what to do. No, he knew what he should do—he should leave, and pretend this hadn't happened at all, but he couldn't make himself do that.

"John. Please." Sherlock's voice sounded nearly as desperate as it had when he'd called him earlier today.

"Sorry. I'm sorry," John said again, and nodded his head once in determination. He stepped out of the flat, pulling the door firmly closed behind him.

Jesus. That was.... Sherlock masturbating. John would've known how to react if he'd found him out of his mind on drugs or about to shoot someone in cold blood. Really, anything but this. Masturbating on the sofa, in the middle of the day, only a minute or two after John had left the flat. Of course, it was his house, he could do as he liked, and the baby was asleep in the bedroom, so it made sense that he'd been on the sofa, but why—

He was still standing in the hallway, mind whirling in confusion and not a small amount of lust, when the door behind him opened and he heard Sherlock's voice, no longer desperate but calm and steady, say, "John."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Diazepam=Valium, though my understanding is they don't call medications by brand names in the UK. Also that Xanax isn't commonly prescribed, although that would be a more common prescription here in the US. Either way, Sherlock could probably use something legal to occasionally calm himself down. 
> 
> Only 2 more chapters. And guess what happens in the next one!?


	9. Chapter 9

John turned back around, nearly as startled to hear Sherlock's voice as he had been to walk in on him a moment ago. Now Sherlock stood in the doorway to the flat, his dressing gown pulled loosely closed around his waist, looking only mildly dishevelled.

"I'm sorry," John said. "I shouldn't—I should have knocked."

"Yes, you should have. But you didn't."

"I'm sorry," he repeated. "I'll leave now."

"No. Don't. John." 

"Sherlock, what you do in the privacy of your own flat is your business."

"No, it's not. I mean, obviously, it is, but...." He took a deep breath and smoothed his hands down the front of his dressing gown as John tried and failed not to stare at his fingers. "My instinct is to let you leave and never speak of this again, but that's not going to get me what I want."

John frowned and forced his eyes up to Sherlock's face. "What do you want?" 

"Isn't it obvious?"

"Not to me, no. I don't—" What more was he supposed to say? That he would forget what he’d seen Sherlock doing on the sofa? That would be a lie; the image of Sherlock with his cock in his hand had already etched itself into his permanent memory.

"You. I want you," Sherlock said, and met his eyes.

The floor seemed to tilt beneath his feet as John realised he hadn't imagined the longing he thought he'd seen earlier. "You—want me? You—" He put a hand on the doorframe to keep himself upright. "Can I come in and sit down?"

"Of course, of course." Sherlock turned and held his arm out, gesturing John in through the door.

John walked past him, the current of lust that was pulsing through him spiking as the silk of Sherlock's dressing gown brushed against his hand. Sherlock had been masturbating on the sofa, and now....

Sherlock sat on the sofa again and, after a moment's hesitation, John joined him. He ran his hands down the length of his own thighs, the fabric of his chinos catching a bit on his skin. "Okay. So. You...." How did he even begin? "You...want me. In the sense of...."

Sherlock turned slightly to face him. "In the sense that as soon as you left my flat, I lay down on the sofa and began to masturbate while thinking of you, yes. Obviously." 

Obviously. John inhaled. "But you never.... I thought you didn't...."

"Masturbate? Why wouldn't I? It's pleasurable and relaxing." 

"Okay, yes. You enjoy the physical aspect, I can see that. But you've always said you weren't interested in relationships with other people."

Sherlock pursed his lips. "Yes. I have said that. I used to think it was true. But John, you and I have been in a relationship since the day we met."

"I.... Okay. I guess that's true." John turned on the sofa cushion so he could face Sherlock, but slid back a few inches so they weren't as close as they had been earlier in the day. "But you—you sat right here in this room a year and a half ago and told me you weren't interested in romantic entanglements."

"You were literally in tears over your dead wife. I wasn't going to try to make a move then." 

"Since when are you so solicitous of other people's feelings?" 

Sherlock stared at him for a moment, then dropped back against the arm of the sofa. "I can't win, can I?"

John bit at his lip, thoughts roiling, before he said, simply, "You can."

"Sorry, what?" 

"You can win." John swallowed. "I do—I want you, too, Sherlock. You can win. I'm just afraid I'm not much of a prize."

Sherlock sat up straight, then leaned towards him. "John, you are literally the best prize that I could ever imagine. The only one. Before I met you, I truly thought that I did prefer to be alone, and I tried to cling to that belief for a long time. Especially when you took every available opportunity to inform people that you weren't gay." 

John lowered his eyes. He had said that, often, mostly as a defence mechanism when people assumed he and Sherlock were a couple. But he'd never said the rest of it out loud. "I'm bisexual." 

"I know," Sherlock replied. 

"What—how could you possibly know that?"

"Mary told me." 

John blinked at him. Mary had known—she'd mentioned it casually a few times, and he'd never denied it. "How did she tell you? Did she make another DVD or— "

"No, no. She told me while she was alive."

"When?"

"After she shot me, of course. You weren't speaking to her, I was stuck in bed convalescing, we chatted quite a bit. She thought you were still in love with me then, but I rather thought that your anger at me for pretending to be dead for two years had put an end to that. Then, after she died, you made it even clearer that you were no longer interested in me, so...." He shrugged.

"So you knew I was interested in you? All this time?"

"I knew Mary thought you were, or had been, at least. Occasionally, I thought she might be right, but I could never be certain that I wasn't projecting my own feelings onto you."

"That's exactly how I've always felt." John smiled at him.

Sherlock smiled back, though John could see the years of sadness behind it. "Having a mind palace hasn't been much of a help in this particular matter, I'm afraid. Every time I've considered attempting to initiate a more intimate relationship with you, I've managed to think my way out of believing you would be interested. A miscalculation, I see. One that I've made repeatedly." 

"Everyone makes miscalculations, Sherlock. The important thing is recognising when you're wrong, and then changing your behaviour so it won't happen again." He slid closer to Sherlock, and carefully put his hand on Sherlock's arm.

Sherlock looked down at John's hand, then up at his face. "Is this a miscalculation?" 

"What? This?" John lowered his eyes to Sherlock's mouth. “I hope not.”

They moved towards each other as one, and John knew he tasted like stale coffee but he forgot to be self-conscious, because Sherlock’s lips were warm and after just a brief press of John’s tongue they opened and—oh. 

The kiss lasted only a few seconds, but they didn't pull away from each other when it ended. Instead, they leaned their foreheads together, arms resting on each other’s shoulders. 

"Sherlock," John said, after a moment, then giggled. 

"What?" Sherlock sounded unsure.

"Nothing, nothing." John lowered his arms and sat back, trying to control his laughter. "It's just—this. I can't believe we’re doing this. Finally. I'm not even sure what else will happen, but we just kissed. I—" He let himself slump sideways slightly, against the sofa back, basking in Sherlock’s soft smile. "Amazing."

They were both quiet for a moment, then Sherlock asked, quietly, "What else do you want to happen?"

“Oh. You mean....” John shook his head, not in denial but because he had no idea what to say. "I think—I think that's up to you. I'm willing to do anything you want. That's always been true, for anything. This isn't any different."

Sherlock nodded, his eyes blinking closed for a moment. "I want it all, John. You know that. I never do anything halfway."

"No, you don't, do you?” John laughed again, warmer and deeper. “One of the things I love about you, actually.”

Sherlock reached out a hand and drew John closer, until they were kissing again, slowly at first and then more frantically. Before he knew what was happening, John found himself straddling Sherlock's lap, not a position he’d ever been in before with a partner. Especially not since he could feel Sherlock's erection pressing up against his thigh. 

"Sorry, sorry. I didn't mean to—" He slid back a few inches on Sherlock's legs and wondered if he should make an attempt to hide the bulge that was clearly visible though his own trousers. 

"No apology needed. Though I do regret not being able to offer to move this into my bedroom."

"It's all right." John slipped off his lap to stand, bumping into the coffee table with the backs of his legs as he tried to nonchalantly adjust himself. 

Sherlock glanced to his left at the baby monitor, then picked it up. "We could go—" He tilted his head up, towards John's old room.

"Upstairs? Brilliant."

Sherlock hugged the monitor to his chest with his left hand and grabbed John's arm with his right. They pulled each other up the stairs, giggling and trying not to make too much noise lest Eve wake up or Mrs. Hudson hear them and get curious.

When they got to the bedroom, Sherlock set the monitor on the chest of drawers next to the window, bent to squint at the screen for a moment, then turned to face John. "Do you think Rosie will be okay up here by herself? Because we should keep Eve in my—our bedroom for a couple of months at least, until she's sleeping longer during the night, but after that, there should be plenty of space for her and Rosie to share this room, don't you think? We can divide it as they get older and want more privacy."

"We—our bedroom?" John said.

Sherlock flinched. "Sorry, I shouldn't have assumed—"

"No, no, it's fine! You assumed right! Even before—this." He stepped closer and waved his hand between them. "I had been thinking that Rosie and I should move back here. I just never dreamed I would be moving into your room. But I want to, I do." He looked up at Sherlock and saw the happiest, most unguarded expression he had ever seen on his face. And beyond that eager smile he saw—yes, that was lust. It was unmistakable, now that he knew what he was looking at. "Come here."

They each took two steps and met in the middle of the room. John slid his arms around Sherlock's waist, pulling him close, then leaned his face against his shoulder, seized by a sudden insecurity. "I hope this isn’t a mistake." 

"It's not a mistake." Sherlock's hands stroked down his back and settled at his waist.

John lifted his head to look up at him. "What if we're just doing this because we're exhausted and overwhelmed and turning to each other for comfort?" 

"We are exhausted and overwhelmed and we are turning to each other for comfort. But it's not a mistake. How long have you been waiting for this?"

"A long time."

"Me, too. Now might not be the perfect time, but there's never going to be a perfect time. There will always be a crisis of some sort, and I don't care, I just want this. Now."

John took a deep breath and buried his face in Sherlock's shoulder again, then spoke into the silky fabric. "Me, too," he said, then sighed and stepped back. "I should warn you, though. I'm not very good at having relationships that last. Mary was the longest, and by the end I almost cheated on her. With Eurus. Before that, I never even made it a year with anyone."

"Again, you and I have been in a relationship since 2010, John. I think we'll be okay."

John laughed, buoyed by a curious mix of euphoria, incredulity and desire. "When I've imagined this day, I always thought that you would be the nervous one and I would have to reassure you."

"Are you nervous, really?" Sherlock gave him a steady stare, and John took a moment to take stock of himself. 

"No. I feel more—excited. With anticipation. There's a bit of disbelief, too."

"Hmm. Well, I assure you that this is real." Sherlock turned sideways and motioned to the bed. "After you?" 

John stepped towards it, then turned and tugged with one hand at the belt of Sherlock's dressing gown, raising an eyebrow. Sherlock nodded and reached out and began to unbutton John's shirt. He pulled the tails from John's trousers, ran a warm, steady hand down the front of John’s vest, and said, "I haven't shaved or showered since Sunday."

"I really don't mind."

Sherlock smiled and gave a little shrug to his shoulders, sending his dressing gown cascading to the floor behind him.

"Oh." John swallowed, mouth suddenly gone dry.

"It's just me, taking off my dressing gown. You've seen that many times before."

"I know. But not knowing what comes next." He stepped up and slid his hand beneath Sherlock's t-shirt, feeling the ripple of lean muscles beneath his fingers. "Mm. Come on." He gave a light push against Sherlock's chest and Sherlock stumbled backwards two steps, collapsing to sit on the bed. 

John stepped forward and Sherlock parted his legs, allowing John to stand between them. He leaned down for another kiss, but after a moment, Sherlock broke away and slid back, bringing his feet up to sit cross-legged on the mattress. 

"Okay, I may be the one who's slightly nervous now."

John stepped back and tried to school his expression so he didn’t look disappointed. "Sorry, sorry. Didn't mean to go too fast." 

Sherlock looked down at the bed. "It's not that. It's just.... There are so many possibilities I can think of, and I'm not sure what you're willing to do—I'm not even sure what I'm willing to do, truthfully. I know you liked it when Mary pegged you, but—"

"Whoa, stop right there." John raised both hands. "How could you possibly know that? She tell you about that, too?" 

"No, I deduced it when I saw you the morning after you first tried it. I'm just not sure—"

"Stop, Sherlock. Stop. You're getting way too far ahead of yourself. I know you say we've been in a relationship for years, but this is also basically our first date. We don't have to do anything more than kiss, if you don't want."

Sherlock looked up at him. "I definitely want to do more than kiss. I was planning on having a rather nice orgasm alone, before you came back up into the flat." 

John sat down next to Sherlock on the bed, but didn’t try to touch him. "Let's start with that, then. Since I happen to know that we both enjoy masturbating while thinking of each other."

"You want to just—" He settled his hand over his flies and frowned. 

“It’s better with someone else.” 

“Is it?” 

“Yes." John leaned over and kissed him again, and soon they had their hands on each other, pulling off shirts and vests. John ran his fingers over the bullet wound on Sherlock's chest, and Sherlock probed at the one on John's shoulder, and neither of them said any more about it.

After a few minutes of exploration, John stood up to take off his trousers, and Sherlock squirmed out of his, revealing a lack of pants that did not surprise John in the least. He would have been surprised at the size of his cock, if he hadn't already had a look at it a little while ago. 

"Come on," Sherlock said, and slid across the bed, stretching himself out on his side along the top of the duvet. He patted the mattress next to him, and John scrambled to join him.

"Show me," Sherlock said. "Show me how you like to do it, and I'll show you what I like." He took himself in hand. 

"Yes." John wasn't as hard as Sherlock was, but he soon remedied that, stroking himself while he watched Sherlock do the same thing. It wasn't enough, though—he couldn’t be this close without touching. He rolled onto his back and wriggled closer, stretching his right hand across the small space between them to caress Sherlock's hip. The sound Sherlock made was unquestionably one of consent, and John moved his fingers further, ready to stop if Sherlock showed any sign of discomfort. 

"Oh," Sherlock said. "You're right. It is better."

John lightly brushed one finger along the side of Sherlock's cock. "Lie on your back, and we can both use both hands."

Sherlock rolled onto his back and reached towards John with his left hand. "I'm not ambidextrous like you are." 

John laughed. "It's a skill you can practice and learn." 

"I'm willing." Sherlock ran his fingers awkwardly along John's ribs, then rolled back onto his left side and scooted closer. "Is this okay?" he asked, as he brought his right hand down and took hold of himself again. With each stroke he gave himself, the tip of his cock hit John's thigh.

"Oh, God, yes." John closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them and turned his head to gaze at Sherlock. He was a stubbly, greasy mess and had never looked so beautiful. John stretched to kiss him, letting go of himself momentarily as he moved. Sherlock opened his mouth, deepening the kiss, and a moment later John felt his fingers tentatively move across his cock.

"Turn on your side," Sherlock said, his voice rumbling even deeper than it normally did, and John obeyed, moaning as he moved. Sherlock took hold of both their cocks, his hand large enough that he could easily do the job. "You like it slow but firm, right?"

"Yes," John panted, and tried to move their bodies closer. "I like everything, anything you do. Just touch me." He put his mouth on Sherlock's again and brought the hand he wasn't lying on up to tangle in his hair, eliciting a gasp from Sherlock.

"Sorry, sorry." He pulled his hand away.

"No, I like it. You can—pull it? Pull it." 

John nearly laughed—Sherlock was clearly learning what he liked just as quickly as he learned anything else. John threaded his hand through his curls again and tugged and was rewarded with another gasp, although this time he could clearly hear that it was one of pleasure.

"John." Sherlock tipped his head down so his hair could be pulled more easily, but his hand working their cocks never paused or slowed. He'd only seen John give himself a few strokes, but somehow in that time he'd learned exactly how he liked to be touched. Unless he had heard him before, all the times that John had lain in this bed alone, thinking of Sherlock. Had they been wanking at the same time without John ever knowing? Oh, God. Maybe he should've been embarrassed, but instead the thought aroused him even more. He tightened his grip in Sherlock's curls and brought their mouths together again, pushing past Sherlock's lips with his tongue.

Sherlock pulled away slightly. "You taste like coffee."

"I had three cups this morning. Did you just notice?" He ran his tongue around the inside of his own mouth. "Would've brushed my teeth if I'd known this was going to happen."

"I don't mind," Sherlock said and crushed their mouths together again.

John plunged his tongue back into Sherlock's mouth and Sherlock let him. He was lying in bed naked with Sherlock, kissing him while Sherlock stroked their cocks. "This is amazing," he gasped, pulling away enough to speak. "I never thought—Sherlock. Why did we wait so long to do this?"

"Many reasons," Sherlock said. "Stop talking." 

"Okay." John pushed Sherlock onto his back and rolled to follow him, ending up halfway on top of him, their chests and shoulders pressed together with Sherlock still holding their cocks. John ground against him, making Sherlock gasp again. Without stretching, his mouth came to Sherlock's neck, so he took advantage, kissing and licking and sucking his way up to his chin, feeling Sherlock squirm beneath him with each touch of his lips and tongue.

"John," Sherlock said, and brought his free hand up to John's mouth. John sucked his first two fingers between his lips and Sherlock moaned, loud enough that John was glad they weren't directly above Mrs. Hudson's flat. He ran his tongue over Sherlock's knuckles inside his mouth and realised he was more than willing to suck anything Sherlock wanted him to, as long as it made him moan like that. 

"Why is that so—?" Sherlock's fingers shifted in his mouth and his hand on their cocks changed its motion, sacrificing some of its earlier rhythm to speed up, stroking furiously between them. 

John let Sherlock's fingers fall from his mouth, returning his lips to his neck, then up and across the stubble on his chin and cheeks, until he finally found his lips again. He pressed their mouths together and Sherlock put his free hand on the back of John's head, gently holding him in place. John kissed him, and Sherlock changed his stroke once more, dragging his hand all the way to the base of their cocks and holding it there for a moment before sliding back up to the top. 

"Jesus, your hand. Not going to last." John pumped his hips. "Keep going. Please."

"Can't stop, even if I wanted to. John." Sherlock's left arm moved to wrap around John's back, pulling them tighter, even as John lifted his hips to give Sherlock's right hand room to move. 

He'd meant it when he said that this was better with another person, but he'd forgotten exactly how good it felt to be touched. And he'd never had another man's cock pressed against his like this—it was better than he'd ever imagined, and he'd imagined being with Sherlock an incalculable number of times. He shifted his weight onto his right arm and slipped his left down between them, gliding first over Sherlock's hand as it moved, then lower, finding Sherlock's bollocks, heavy and full.

Sherlock's hand stuttered for a split-second, and John stroked slowly across the tight flesh beneath his cock. He stretched to kiss his mouth once more, and Sherlock's head rocked back into the pillow, letting out a long, slow groan. Beneath him, Sherlock's hand stilled, and John whispered, "Yes," as Sherlock bit off a small cry. A moment later, his whole body stiffened as his cock spilled over his hand, hitting John's stomach and covering Sherlock's own.

John slid his hand up, over Sherlock's, as Sherlock's cock continued to twitch and spurt. He couldn't—oh. He put his hand on the mattress to support himself and lowered his head so his forehead rested against Sherlock's mouth as his own climax overtook him. 

They both stayed like that, gasping for air, until finally Sherlock moved, working his hand out from between them. John let more of his weight fall to lie on top of him, despite the mess across his stomach. 

"That was a bit more than just masturbation," Sherlock said. "Guess we both need to shower now."

John huffed a laugh and carefully raised himself up on his arms again, trying not to spread the mess any further. He glanced at the nightstand next to the bed. "I used to have a tissue box there for just this sort of situation."

"Sorry, I must have moved it when I was up here tidying."

"You did no such thing." John slid off the bed and crouched down to look beneath the bed—the box had fallen against the wall at some point in the last few years. "You've never tidied anything up here in your life."

"True." Sherlock lay still while John swiped at his stomach with a series of tissues. "Didn't know I'd ever need easy access to tissues."

When John had finished cleaning them both up, he crossed the room to toss the used tissues into the bin and then picked up his clothes and started to get dressed.

"John." Sherlock reached out and caught him by the arm before he could pull his vest over his head.

"Hmm?"

Sherlock let his arm drop. "You are so beautiful."

John shook his head. "You have a truly skewed sense of beauty, but thank you." He put his vest on and then glanced at the baby monitor. "Looks like she's still sound asleep."

"Hasn't been that long." Sherlock rolled over onto his stomach, burying his face in the pillow.

"You want to have a nap?"

"Me?" He turned his head on the pillow to speak. "What makes you think I'm tired?"

"Well, you did just expend a great deal of energy."

"Wrist's sore." He lifted his arm and shook his hand. "You can do all the work next time."

Next time. Yes, there would be a next time. John grinned and sat down on the edge of the bed so he could finish dressing. "I'm going to go pick up Rosie from Molly's and get something for us to eat for dinner. I'll wake you when I get back, unless Eve does it before then." He stood up and retrieved Sherlock's dressing gown from the floor, then draped it over him, covering the faded crosshatch of scars that lined his back. “Sleep well,” he whispered, and bent to drop a kiss on the back of his neck, still hardly able to believe that he was finally allowed to do so.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you once more to my 2 betas, [Silvergirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silvergirl/pseuds/Silvergirl) and [Luthe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luthe/pseuds/Luthe). You both helped me make this fic better!
> 
> (And thanks to St. Vincent for the fic title, from her song Masseduction, which doesn't have too much to do with this story, but the whole album just gives me Johnlock/Holmes family vibes. Probably because of all the drug references.)

Before he went to pick up Rosie from Molly's, John stopped home. He packed an overnight bag for each of them, then added more clothes, just in case. He was supposed to work tomorrow, but no one at the surgery would be surprised if he told them he needed the day off. In fact, maybe now was the time to take that leave of absence he'd refused after Mary died. He could help Sherlock with Eve, let Rosie adjust to the idea of moving, get the house ready to put on the market. Yes. Finally. He was moving back to Baker Street.

He ordered food to be delivered to Sherlock's place for dinner and then filled his car with all of the baby items that he and Rosie had set aside for Eve the other day. 

When he got to Molly's, she let him in with a smile, turning to call to Rosie, who was in the kitchen, "Daddy's here to take you home now." 

John stepped into her flat. "Actually, we're going back to Baker Street tonight."

Molly's smile faltered. "Is he all right? I thought if you'd left him, he must be okay, but—"

"No, no, Sherlock's fine. He's good. Very good, actually." Oh, God. He needed to tell her, but he wasn't sure how she would react. She seemed to have recovered after the forced declaration of love at Sherrinford, but that might have been because she thought Sherlock wasn't interested in anyone romantically. "Erm, Molly." 

"Yes? Come here, you." She squatted down and caught Rosie by the arm as she ran by. "Your face is covered in pizza sauce." 

John had been grinning since he'd left Sherlock's bed, but now he could feel his smile tightening as he tried to force it to stay on his face. "So, um. There's, uh, something you should know. That happened. Today." 

Molly squinted up at him, puzzled.

"Sherlock and I. We're, um, we—" He paused, searching for the correct wording, but before he could find it, Molly popped up to her feet again. 

"Oh, oh! You are? Really?"

"Er, yeah." He frowned, not positive that they were talking about the same thing. "We're together. Now." 

Molly's smile looked sincere. "That's...amazing, really, that you finally.... Watch out, her hands are greasy." 

John bent to catch Rosie before she could throw her arms around his legs and carried her through the living room and into the kitchen. He set her on the step stool in front of the sink and helped her clean the pizza off her hands and face. Molly followed them into the kitchen but didn't say anything else about him and Sherlock, and John was grateful to have that awkward conversation over. 

He dried Rosie's hands with a tea towel and let her jump down from the stool. "Go and get your bag. We're going to see Sherlock and baby Eve now, and we're going to sleep at their house tonight."

"Oh, are you...?" 

John was fairly certain that Molly was asking if he was sleeping with Sherlock, but that wasn't a question he was going to answer. "We're going to be moving in with him. Not immediately, but soon, I think." 

She nodded. "That's good. I'm really happy for you, and for Sherlock, for both of you. I know.... I know you'll be happy together. And it will be good for both of you."

"Yeah. Yeah." John's grin was back in full force. "And I think it will be good for Rosie, too, and for Eve. To have us both around." 

Molly nodded. "Eve. Yeah. I hope.... I mean, I think Sherlock will be a great father. He's a natural with Rosie. I just hope Eve doesn't end up like Eurus anyway. I know Sherlock used to pretend to be a sociopath, but he's really a caring person who was just trying to hide his emotions. So it's natural he would think his sister is the same, but she's an actual sociopath, don't you think? And yes, there can be a genetic predisposition, but the environment a child is raised in can also contribute—" 

"Eve is four days old. Let's give her a chance, hmm?" 

"Oh, yes, yes. Of course. I mean, you're doing a fine job raising Rosie, she's very empathetic. Not that she has sociopathic genes. I mean, Mary and you...."

"Molly." John tipped his head at her and she closed her mouth.

Rosie tugged on his hand. "Daddy, see Sh'wock and baby now." 

"Yes, all right. Did you get your bag like I told you to? And Mr. Bear, I saw he was on the sofa."

Rosie ran off to get her bag and bear and a little while later they were on their way to Baker Street. When they got there, he left the boxes of things for Eve in the car to be retrieved later, grabbing only their overnight bags for now.

Rosie danced on the stoop with Mr. Bear in her arms as John unlocked the door to the building, and Mrs. Hudson emerged from her flat before they were both all the way inside. Rosie dropped the stuffed bear and ran to give her a hug.

"John. I thought I heard your voice earlier. Were you here this afternoon?"

"Yes, I, er, stopped by for a little while," John replied. Mrs. Hudson had been unaware of Sherlock's desperate phone call to him earlier today and even more unaware of what had happened after. "Sherlock hasn't—you haven't spoken to him or been upstairs lately, have you?"

"No, I haven't heard a peep from him or the baby."

"Okay." He glanced up the stairs and debated what to tell her now. Though he expected this conversation would be less uncomfortable than the one he'd just had with Molly, he didn't want to have it here in the stairwell, especially without Sherlock at his side. "He was, erm, about to nap when I left to get Rosie."

"Oh, that's good. I don't think he got much sleep the last two nights. You should stay with him, John, help him out so he doesn't have to look after the baby alone. He sent me and his mother away, but he'll let you help." 

"I am staying." He lifted his bag. "We.... Why don't you come on upstairs with us, Mrs. Hudson?" 

"He told me to get out, this morning."

"That was this morning. I'm sure he won't mind if you come up now."

"Oh, well, maybe. If he's had a nap." 

John led her and Rosie up the stairs. He knocked on the door—one lesson he'd learned, at least—and then cracked it open, sticking his head in but not letting Rosie or Mrs. Hudson pass by him. "Sherlock?" he called, without raising his voice too much, for fear of disturbing Eve. 

There was no answer from within the flat, but a moment later there was a clattering from above and Sherlock appeared, descending the staircase from John's old bedroom. John suspected he had just woken up, though he had thankfully taken the time to put his clothes and dressing gown back on.

Sherlock stopped several steps above where they stood on the landing. "Hello. John. Mrs. Hudson. Rosie. I was just having a nap, but I woke up and decided I should come down and check on Eve." 

Mrs. Hudson's brow furrowed. "You were napping upstairs? Usually you just pass out on the sofa down here."

"Yes. Well. I was upstairs this time. Slept very well, as a matter of fact." He smiled at Mrs. Hudson and then at John, and tromped down the remaining three stairs to join them on the landing. 

"John." Sherlock greeted him again, and John knew that he himself was currently wearing the same goofy grin that Sherlock displayed.

Sherlock's head turned briefly towards Mrs. Hudson, his smile drooping for a moment before it widened even more. He took another step across the landing and before John knew what was happening, Sherlock had draped an arm over his shoulders and planted a kiss on his lips. 

John leaned into the kiss for just a moment, then pulled away, feeling himself blush at the idea that they had just kissed for an audience. Rosie didn't seem to notice at all, but Mrs. Hudson uttered a small squeal. 

"Well, it's about time," she said, and clapped her hands together. "When will you be moving back in, John? Do you need me to keep Rosie downstairs tonight, so you can have some time alone together?"

"Er, no," John said, as Sherlock stepped away, looking smug. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, but that shouldn't be necessary." They did need to figure out what their permanent sleeping arrangements would look like, but as much as he wanted to share a bed with Sherlock as soon as possible, he didn't want to pawn Rosie off on Mrs. Hudson just so they could be alone.

"See baby sister now!" Rosie darted past John and banged open the door to the flat, disappearing inside.

"Oh, her sister! Are you going to have her call her that now, John?" 

"We'd already decided that days ago," Sherlock said, and followed Rosie into the flat. "Come on, John."

John gave Mrs. Hudson an apologetic shrug. "I'll be there in a minute," he told Sherlock. "I need to go get some more boxes out of the car. We brought some of Rosie's old things for Eve to use." 

John unloaded the car by himself, making several trips to haul boxes into the flat while Sherlock got Eve out of her cot and changed and fed her, narrating everything he did to a transfixed Rosie. The food John had ordered arrived, and John and Sherlock ate in the living room, while Rosie unpacked all of her old baby toys, holding up each item in turn so she could explain it to Eve, who rocked in her swing. 

By the time they were done eating, Eve had fallen asleep in the swing and Rosie had lost interest in both her and all the toys she'd spread across the room. John took her into the loo to give her a bath while Sherlock put Eve down to sleep in his bedroom. 

When she'd finished her bath, John wrestled Rosie into her pyjamas and gave her hair a quick pass with a towel to dry it. "Okay, Eve is sleeping in her cot now, so let's be very quiet and go upstairs to read some books before bed, hmm?"

"Sh'wock read to me, Daddy."

"I'll ask him. Go find Mr. Bear—I think you left him on the sofa."

Rosie found her bear and Sherlock scooped both her and the stuffed animal up into his arms and they headed upstairs. John set to work picking up all the baby toys Rosie had scattered about, and moving the boxes of toys and other gear into approximately the right locations in the flat. They still didn't have a place to store Eve's clothes, but Sherlock's bedroom was large enough that they should have no problem fitting a child-sized chest of drawers into it. 

He dropped the last box of clothes in the corner of the bedroom with a grunt of relief. The boxes hadn't seemed that heavy when he'd packed them up. He shook out his arms and walked into the living room just as Sherlock came back downstairs into the flat. 

"She go to bed for you, or does she want me to come up?" John hadn't been sure if Rosie would sleep here without him, although they'd moved the travel cot back upstairs, so she wouldn't be in the full-size bed on her own.

"She's asleep already." 

"Oh, thank God." He exhaled and dropped into his chair, letting his head fall back for a second before sitting up straight so he could stretch his shoulders and neck.

"Are your muscles bothering you?"

"No, it's fine. Just a little tight."

Sherlock stepped around the back of his chair and settled his hands on John's shoulders. John twisted his neck to look up at him. "What, are you going to give me a massage?"

"Yes. If you'll let me." 

"Go for it." He shifted his position slightly, allowing Sherlock access to the upper half of his back as well as his shoulders, though he suspected some ibuprofen before he went to bed tonight would be more effective than whatever effort Sherlock made. But as soon as Sherlock began to move his hands, John realised he had underestimated his skill. His touch was not too heavy on the tender points near John's neck, but firm enough to loosen the overused muscles. "Where did you learn how to do that?"

"I had a case once...." Sherlock began, then paused, though his hands didn't stop trying to coax the stubborn knot out of John's left shoulder. "That's not true. I've never really given anyone a massage before, but I've seen it done." He paused again, and John wondered where Sherlock could possibly have gone to study other people massaging one another. "I used to watch my father. Every day, after dinner, he and my mother would clear the table and do the washing up, and then she would sit in front of the fireplace in her chair and he would give her a massage. I always thought she was just tense from doing housework and looking after me and Mycroft. But now, I think...." His hands finally stopped moving as his voice trailed off. 

"Sherlock?" John turned his head to look up over his shoulder at him. 

Sherlock's lips twisted briefly before he replied. "I think it was more than the normal stress of raising a family that made Mummy ache so. I think it was grief. And the massage was my father's way of trying to comfort her."

"Oh. Because...Eurus." John turned to face forward again, lifting his shoulder, testing its movement. "I can't imagine what that must have been like for your parents. All those years." He thought of Rosie asleep upstairs alone. 

After a moment, Sherlock resumed the massage, and John let himself relax into it. By the time Sherlock finished, his muscles felt better than they had in ages. He wouldn't need to take any painkillers tonight after all.

"Feeling better now?"

"Yes. Thank you."

"Good." Sherlock stepped back from the chair. "I'll expect reciprocation in the future. Now I need to go have a shower and a shave. I feel disgusting."

John turned in his chair to look up at Sherlock again. "You don't have to shave if you don't want to."

"Yes, I—wait." Sherlock brought a hand up to his chin and wrinkled his brow. "You like this look, don't you? Why?"

John let his tongue dart out between his lips as he considered. "I don't know. I didn't even know I did until just now."

"You weren't attracted to me the last time I looked like this."

"No. I never wanted to see you again."

"But now. Something about it turns you on." Sherlock paced over to the sofa and back again, and John tried not to stare. "I was high the last time, and you definitely don't find that attractive. But—oh! I look dangerous, don't I?"

John raised his eyebrows.

"I look dangerous right now and, as much as you've tried to fight it, that's the number one quality you enjoy in a partner, male or female."

John pursed his lips, then nodded. "You may be right."

"Of course I'm right. But don't you think I'm dangerous even when I'm clean-shaven?"

"I know you're dangerous. You don't need to look it."

"But you like how I look right now." He stopped pacing directly in front of John's chair, clasped his hands behind his back, and looked down at him. "You're aroused, aren't you?"

"Hm. Yes. But while it has been a few hours, I'm not quite sure I'm up for another round just yet. It's been a long day."

"Not a problem." Sherlock bent and kissed him, something in between the small peck they'd shared in front of Mrs. Hudson and Rosie and the deeper, more passionate moments they'd had this afternoon. "Unfortunately, I am going to have to shave. Unless I'm high or otherwise distracted, I can't stand the feeling of stubble on my own face."

Sherlock strode off to have a shower and John leaned back in his chair, feeling relaxed enough that he thought he might be able to fall asleep, until a cry from down the hall pulled him back to full wakefulness.

He got up and retrieved Eve from her cot, whispering to soothe her cries. She hadn't been asleep for very long, so he didn't think that she was hungry already. He checked her nappy and then turned the lights low and sat in the glider in Sherlock's room, holding her against his shoulder while he gently rocked her. He'd missed out on many nights like this with Rosie; he'd let Mary take care of her, while he'd spent his time texting a stranger he'd seen once on the bus. Eurus. And it hadn't just been her pretty smile that had attracted him to her, had it? No, there'd been danger there, too. Maybe it was simply the danger implicit in sneaking around behind Mary's back that had lured him, or maybe he had subconsciously sensed that there was something even more threatening about the girl with the long red hair. He shouldn't have done it, either way, even if it never did go beyond flirtatious text messages. 

He didn't want to be attracted to danger, but at this point in his life he had to accept that it wasn't something he could change. Still, he hoped he might finally have matured enough to recognise when things were going too far. He had a child now—two children—and the beginnings of a new relationship with the man he had loved for years. They couldn't take risks as they once had, not when they now had so much to lose.

He lifted Eve from his shoulder and laid her face-up on his lap, her head resting at his knees. Even in the dim light, he could see that she had an outbreak of baby acne across her forehead and dried spit-up on her chin. She was beautiful. "We have to take care of you now, don't we? You and your big sister." He held her tiny hands between his thumbs and fingers and wiggled them gently, smiling and speaking in a whisper. "Can't be running off into danger all the time." He knew it, and knew Sherlock must, as well. He'd known it for a while now, though it had taken having Mary die in his arms at the aquarium, and going home alone that night to care for Rosie, to make it really sink in. 

Eve gurgled and John let go of her hands. She waved them rhythmlessly in the air and he lifted her up again, bringing her to his chest and inhaling the scent of her milk-spattered hair. 

He could do it. He knew he could. And so could Sherlock. They could help each other resist all their worst instincts—they'd done that when Sherlock had phoned him today, hadn't they? Molly had said they would be good for each other; maybe she was right. Maybe they could make each other better men, something good partners did for one another, a sentiment he'd tried so clumsily to express to Sherlock in the aftermath of the Culverton Smith debacle. As long as they could manage to not both break down at the same time, they might be able to survive and even thrive together.

Eve fell asleep in his arms, but John continued to sit in the glider until Sherlock emerged from the bathroom, dressed in a different pair of pyjama bottoms and dressing gown than the ones he'd worn all day.

"Oh, sorry," Sherlock said, when he saw John sitting in the room. "I didn't know she'd woken up, or I would've taken care of her myself."

"It's all right." John shifted Eve to one arm and carefully stood, stepping around the glider's footstool so he could put her back down in her cot. 

When he turned around again, Sherlock was still standing across the room, watching him. John couldn't read his expression clearly in the darkness, so he crossed to stand closer. "Yeah, you're right. Clean-shaven is a good look for you." He grinned and pulled Sherlock into his arms.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around him and they kissed again, though it wasn't long before Sherlock pulled back. "You're tired," he said, voice low.

John stepped back all the way and brought a hand up to his face, rubbing at his eyes. "Yeah, I am." It was still relatively early, but he hadn't slept well last night and the coffee he'd had this morning had worn off hours ago. Not to mention the fact that he'd expended a good deal more physical and emotional energy than he'd expected to today. 

"You're welcome to sleep in here, though I don't think I'll be going to bed tonight myself."

"You're going to stay up all night?"

"Eve will be up at least twice anyway, and I slept longer than I expected to this afternoon. I might eventually get tired, but you have work tomorrow, so you should definitely get some rest."

"Actually, I called the surgery and told them I wouldn't be in. Told them I needed time off for a family emergency."

"Paternity leave?"

"Something like that." He rubbed at the back of his head, and glanced at Sherlock's bed. "I think...I think I'm going to sleep upstairs, if you won't be going to bed anyway. Rosie's used to me being up there with her."

Sherlock nodded. "And you'll sleep better if Eve isn't there to wake you."

"Yeah. Tomorrow I'll start talking to Rosie about moving in here, get her used to the idea. We can get a rail for the bed, so she doesn't need to sleep in the travel cot, and get her excited about having her own room here, like she does at home. It might take a little while for her to adjust."

"A little while for Rosie to adjust? What about you and me?" 

"I'm easy to live with," John responded. "But you're right, it might take me a while to get used to living with you again."

Laughing quietly, Sherlock pulled John close again for another quick kiss. "I've never shared a bedroom in my life, but I guess having you in here can't be any worse than having an infant."

"No, I very rarely wake up crying these days," John said. "And you'll never have to change my nappy."

They left the bedroom, and after doing a bit more tidying in the living room and kitchen, John headed upstairs to bed. He couldn't say he wasn't a little disappointed to be sleeping alone, but he knew he'd be downstairs with Sherlock soon enough. He was asleep within minutes of lying down, and while he was vaguely aware of Rosie moving around in the travel cot during the night, he slept much better than he had in days.

He woke up to Rosie standing next to the bed, stretching on her tiptoes to shake his arm. The travel cot was no match for a determined toddler; he'd get a rail and let her have the bed to herself starting tonight. They could put a second baby monitor up here, in case she needed him in the night. 

They went downstairs together, and he let her plop down in front of the telly for a few minutes of cartoons. Sherlock was sitting in the kitchen, staring at an open laptop, with three other closed laptops scattered across the table. 

"Morning," John greeted him, and leaned over to kiss his cheek, startling Sherlock, who apparently hadn't noticed him and Rosie arriving. John straightened up, enjoying the look of surprise on Sherlock's face. "So, did you even try to get any sleep last night?" 

Sherlock shook his head and glanced at his watch. "I expect Eve to be awake again within the next 90 minutes, and then after she's been fed and had her fill of burping and swinging and rocking, I'll go to sleep when she does. That should be sufficient to get me through today."

"All right, but as she gets bigger and gets on a more reasonable sleep schedule, we're going to put you on one, too."

"You can try."

"Well." John raised his eyebrows. "After yesterday afternoon, I now know the secret to getting you to sleep."

Sherlock smiled slowly and leaned back in his chair. "If we can do that every night, maybe I will start sleeping regularly. But I'm glad I stayed up last night, because I got a lot of work done." He pulled a spiral-bound notebook out from beneath one of the closed laptops.

"What's that, then? You working on a case?"

"Not a case, no." He opened the notebook to somewhere in the middle, revealing a two-page spread of scrawled, hand-written notes. "I've been tracing Eurus's movements." 

"Sorry, what? Eurus?" John had intended to put the kettle on for tea, but instead he pulled out the chair opposite Sherlock and sat down. "You think you can find her now?"

"No, probably not. She'll always be a step ahead of me. But I'm trying to find out where she's been." 

That was better than completely ignoring the fact that she was free, John supposed, as he watched Sherlock page through the notebook, which was about half-filled with notes and what looked like hastily-drawn street maps. "So you know where she was all those months after she escaped, before she showed up here?" 

"I've tracked her back to December so far. Found police reports for three petty thefts I'm pretty sure she was involved in. All crimes of convenience—she could definitely have afforded what she stole. Also, one hacked medical database. I think she was checking the results of her own pre-natal testing, rather than returning to the doctor or setting up an online account for herself. Nothing more serious than that, at least not that I've found so far."

John squinted at the notebook, seeing how Sherlock had highlighted a report of a stolen wallet found in a skip, intact except for a missing driving licence. If he hadn't known better, John might have thought it was a record of Sherlock's own crimes. "You did all this last night?"

"Well. Not just me. Anderson helped. And I used the Homeless Network to clear up a few questions I had."

"You asked Anderson for help tracking Eurus?"

"He still feels guilty and thinks he owes me. Plus, he has experience. He managed to track my movements halfway around the world, even if he never quite caught up with me."

"Okay." John pushed the notebook back towards Sherlock. "Why?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Why are you tracking where she's been? Do you think it will eventually lead you to her?"

"No, probably not. I think there will most likely always be a delay, because I need to wait for police or other reports of what she's done."

John stared at him, knowing Sherlock wasn't telling him everything.

After meeting his stare for a few moments, Sherlock lowered his gaze and closed the notebook. "I don't know if I could ever catch up to her. But. If I discovered that she had committed a more serious crime than what I've found so far...."

"What? Then you would actually try to find her?"

"It would depend on the exact nature and circumstances of the crime."

"Murder?"

Sherlock nodded, lips pinched tight. "Were that the case, I would bring Mycroft in. He has far more resources than Anderson and the Homeless Network. I think between the two of us, we could find her. Eventually."

"But you won't try that now."

Sherlock shook his head. "She deserves a chance to try to have a life outside of prison."

"Just because she's been on the run for ten months without killing anyone doesn't mean she's redeemed herself, Sherlock. She's a sociopath."

"I didn't say she's redeemed herself. But I won't see her punished any more, either. A sociopath can learn to live in society, John. It's not an excuse to lock someone up forever."

"You're know you're not a sociopath, Sherlock. Don't project your own behaviour onto her."

"I know. I know. But what would you do, John? If you were locked up for your crimes, without a trial or any chance to be free again. Would you quietly acquiesce and stay in prison? Or would you find a way to escape and get your life back?"

John closed his eyes for a moment. They were never going to agree, and John himself was never going to believe that Eurus should be allowed to remain free. Sherlock's agreement to try to catch her if she killed again was likely the best he could hope for, and it would have to suffice. "Just to be clear, are you promising me that if you discover that Eurus has killed again, you will tell Mycroft so the two of you can work together to put her back in Sherrinford?"

"I promise—wait, any killing? What if it's justified?"

John sighed. "Unless it's directly in self-defence."

Sherlock nodded. "I do think she's made a concerted effort not to kill again unless it's absolutely necessary." 

"That's—Sherlock, most people don't...." He took a deep breath and started again. "I hope you're right about Eurus. I really do. But I also think maybe you and I need to examine our own lives. I mean, you are right about one thing. I do find danger attractive. But I can't let that rule my life anymore."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Are you breaking up with me less than 24 hours after our first orgasms together?"

"What—no." John barked a short laugh. "No, Sherlock. I just think we shouldn't.... We shouldn't celebrate or condone killing just because it's for reasons we decide are justified. We need to bring Rosie and Eve up to believe killing—or any violence, really—is wrong. I know we've made light of it in the past, but we shouldn't. We have to raise those two girls right, and we should live what we teach them."

Sherlock stared at him. "You've changed."

"Yeah, I guess I have." He sighed. When he'd first met Sherlock, he hadn't even been able to imagine a future where he didn't sleep with a gun close at hand, and now here he was, preaching nonviolence for the sake of their children. "I've been thinking about this sort of thing a lot, since Mary died, and even more since I attacked you in the hospital morgue. That's when I knew I had to change."

"You didn't attack me on purpose. You were grieving and angry and I started it by trying to stab Culverton Smith. What you did was understandable."

"That doesn't mean I should have done it. Christ, Sherlock. That was assault. I assaulted you. I should have been arrested, brought up on charges."

"I wouldn't bring charges against you."

"I know." John shook his head. "I told Lestrade that I'd hit you—he watched it on the recording—but he didn't even bat an eye. No one held me responsible. But you should have. And if I ever start to do something like that again, to you, or anyone else, you need to stop me. I know you can—you stopped me from punching Mycroft the other day. But I shouldn't—I shouldn't have to be stopped. I'm trying. I'm trying to be better."

"I know," Sherlock said softly. "I know."

John leaned back in his chair and let out another slow exhalation. "And on that cheerful note, I think I'm going to go have a shower. Would you mind turning off the telly once the programme Rosie is watching is over? And she'll need something to eat for breakfast." He knew Sherlock would find something relatively healthy for her, and with any luck he would eat something himself.

When he finished his shower and came out of the bathroom, John found a box of cereal and two bowls on the kitchen table, though it appeared breakfast had not progressed any further than that. He could hear Sherlock speaking in the living room, so he called out, "Hey, did you two forget that you need to pour the cereal into the bowls?" He crossed through the kitchen and into the living room, only to discover that Sherlock and Rosie were no longer alone. "Oh. Mrs. Holmes. Mr. Holmes. Good morning." He adjusted the fall of his shirtsleeves self-consciously, grateful that he'd dressed immediately after he showered instead of wandering around wearing just his dressing gown.

"John!" Mrs. Holmes's voice boomed as she stood up from the sofa. "Congratulations!" She crossed the room in a few swift strides and wrapped him in a hug that he didn't have a chance to avoid. 

"Mrs. Hudson phoned my parents," Sherlock said, when his mother finally released John from her hold. 

"I see," John said, looking over at Sherlock, who stood leaning against the desk, arms crossed over his chest.

"She did phone us," Mrs. Holmes said. "But I already knew it was going to happen soon. It was just a matter of when."

"You knew John and I were going to get together? How on earth could you possibly have known that?"

"Well, I saw the two of you on Sunday, didn't I? And I've seen the way you look at each other all these years."

"All these years?" Sherlock straightened up from his slumped position. "You knew all these years? Why didn't you ever say anything to me?"

"Oh, I couldn't do that! It wasn't my place to interfere!"

"Interfere? You spent the last two days here interfering, before I sent you home."

"Not in your love life! Sherlock! Oh, John, I'm so sorry, we shouldn't be arguing like this on such a happy occasion. And in front of Rosie, too." She turned back to the sofa, where Rosie sat near Mr. Holmes, playing with her stuffed bear. "Rosie, love, show Daddy what Mr. Bear is wearing, why don't you?"

"Daddy, look!" Rosie held the bear up, and John crossed the room so he could see.

"Oh, is that a raincoat he has on?"

"Yes! From Gran and Grandad!"

"Gran and Grandad?" John raised his eyebrows, glancing at Sherlock's parents and then back at Rosie. 

Mr. Holmes spoke up. "We hope you don't mind, John. It's just, we've never had anyone else to call us that before."

John blinked. "No, no, it's fine. I was just surprised to hear her say it." Considering that two days ago, Rosie had hidden her face every time Mrs. Holmes tried to speak to her.

"Show Daddy what else Mr. Bear got, Rosie," Mrs. Holmes prompted.

Rosie bounced up from the sofa and ran through the open door out into the hallway, returning a moment later dragging a doll-sized pram behind her. "I can push Mr. Bear in it!"

"That's wonderful, Rosie. Did you remember to say thank you?"

Rosie gave a vigorous nod as she tucked Mr. Bear beneath a blanket in the pram. 

"Good girl," John said, then added, to Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, "Thank you. She brings that bear everywhere with her, so that's a perfect gift for her."

"Oh, I know," Mrs. Holmes replied, although John didn't recall Rosie playing with Mr. Bear when she was here on Sunday. 

"Want to go to the park, Daddy! With baby Eve! Pwease!"

"Eve is sleeping, but maybe this afternoon," John said. It would be Eve's first trip outside of the flat—he smiled at the thought of how overprotective Sherlock was likely to be. "But right now, you need to eat some breakfast. Come on." He corralled Rosie into the kitchen, leaving Sherlock to deal with his parents. 

John didn't do any better than Sherlock had at actually serving Rosie breakfast. He got the milk and a spoon out, but before he poured the cereal, he heard footsteps on the landing and a moment later Mrs. Holmes's voice, loudly announcing, "Mycroft!"

John stepped back into the living room in time to see Mrs. Holmes standing at the door, facing Mycroft, who looked like a cornered fox that had been surprised by the hounds and was momentarily too startled to run. 

"Oh, pardon me," Mycroft said. "I didn't know Sherlock had visitors. Perhaps I should come back later."

"Nonsense!" Mr. Holmes said, rising up from his seat on the sofa. He crossed the room and ushered his wife away from the door with a simple wave of his hand. "Your mother and I haven't seen you in ages. Come in, come in. Have you seen the new baby yet?"

"Yes, he was here on Sunday," Mrs. Holmes told him. "But he left before I got here. I think he was trying to avoid me."

"Of course I wasn't, Mummy. I was simply too busy to stay."

"Too busy to stay and see your own mother?"

"As it happens, yes. I did have rather urgent matters to attend to. But now I've come back, because I have what I believe Sherlock will consider to be good news to share." He lifted his chin to look past his parents and over at Sherlock, who had moved to sit in his chair while John had been in the kitchen. 

"Did you find Eurus?" Mr. Holmes asked, voice hopeful.

"No. I expect that to be a rather long-term search. But when I was here last, I obtained a soiled handkerchief, upon which young Eve had been kind enough to regurgitate. Her dried saliva contained enough DNA to run a search, looking for her father. There were no paternal matches found in any existing databases." 

John stepped forward. "So we know he's not a criminal, at least.".

"Not one who's been caught."

"And he's not in the military," Sherlock added. 

Mycroft smirked and looked from Sherlock to John and back again. "No, brother dear. It appears Eurus doesn't share that preference—oh, good lord. Which of you finally broke down and confessed your undying love first?"

"None of your business, Mycroft." Sherlock stood up. "Thank you for the update on Eve's parentage. I trust you'll be providing me with a birth certificate soon?" 

"Of course. In fact, I should go take care of that right now."

"Mycroft Holmes, you cannot leave so soon. We haven't seen you since Christmas."

"What Mummy means to say is that we've missed you, and it's quite nice to have the whole family together like this." Mr. Holmes smiled, then waved a hand towards John and Rosie, who had come out from the kitchen and was standing partially behind him, clinging to his right leg. "Especially since our family's nearly doubled in size. Why don't I pop down to the café and bring us up a nice treat? Rosie, do you want to help me pick out something yummy that we can all eat?"

"Yes!"

"Perfect. Put your shoes on and we'll be off."

Rosie let go of John's leg and zoomed over to Mr. Holmes—Grandad. John would have to start calling him that, around her, but it was going to take him a while to get used to it.

Mycroft stepped all the way into the flat as Rosie and Mr. Holmes left. He and Sherlock exchanged a few brotherly glares before Mycroft settled onto the sofa, sitting at the end opposite from his mother. 

"Oh, Sherlock," Mrs. Holmes began. "I called the vicar to ask about baptisms and—"

"You called who to do what?"

"Sherlock. It doesn't need to be immediately, but you will want to have Eve baptised. It's tradition. Rosie was baptised, wasn't she, John?"

"Erm, yes, she was," John replied, feeling a bit guilty because he didn't want to force Sherlock into doing something he didn't believe in, but unable to lie about such a thing to Mrs. Holmes. He gave Sherlock an apologetic smile and moved to sit down in his chair across from him. 

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. "John only had Rosie baptised because Mary wanted to. Same reason he got married in a church."

"Oh yes," Mycroft chimed in. "I'm sure it was Mary the assassin who insisted on baptising young Rosamund."

Mrs. Holmes turned to stare at Mycroft. "Mary the what?"

"Oops," Mycroft said, raising one hand to his mouth. "Did you forget to tell Mummy who shot you, Sherlock?"

"Mary shot you?" Mrs. Holmes turned to face Sherlock, her gaze briefly passing over John along the way. "What did you do to the poor woman to make her shoot you?"

"Mummy!" Sherlock leaned over the arm of his chair, towards her. "I didn't do anything. Why would you immediately assume I was to blame?"

"Sherlock." Mrs. Holmes sat back, head tipped, disbelief clear on her face. "I've known you your whole life. What did you do to her first?"

Sherlock glanced at John, the incredulous look on his face highlighting just how much he looked like his mother. John had a vague feeling that he should intervene and explain everything, but he had no idea where he would even start that explanation. He did have the urge to punch Mycroft, though. Was the fact that he wasn't acting on it progress?

Sherlock looked back at his mother. "All I did was take her by surprise. She was an assassin, as Mycroft said."

"Did someone think you were important enough to assassinate? How much did they pay her?"

"No one paid—Mummy! Whatever happened to the rage you were meant to have if you found out who shot me?"

"Oh, well." Mrs. Holmes waved a hand, the same dismissive motion Sherlock had made in regards to Rosie's baptism. "That was years ago. If Mary were here right now, I'd give her a good chewing out, but since she's not...." She sighed and looked at John for a moment before continuing. "Sherlock, you be sure to take good care of yourself. John doesn't want to lose another partner."

"I will, Mummy. I will." Sherlock looked at John and then stood up abruptly and began to pace between his chair and the coffee table. John was certain that Sherlock had been about to kiss him before having second thoughts about doing it in front of his mother—or Mycroft, more likely. 

Mrs. Holmes watched Sherlock pace back and forth a few times before speaking again. "You know, there have been times when I've wondered if it wasn't a mistake for me to ever have had children at all. The amount of heartache and destruction the three of you have caused." She sighed again. "But I know you've also done good in your lives, and made people happy, so I can't regret it, in the end. And I love you all dearly. I just wish Eurus were able to be here, too."

Sherlock stopped pacing long enough to look at Mycroft, who returned his gaze but didn't say anything. After a moment, Sherlock cleared his throat. "Mummy, I hope I speak for all of us when I say I'm sorry for everything you've suffered because of us. I think we're all trying to do better now."

Mrs. Holmes sniffed and reached for her handbag and Mycroft shifted uncomfortably on the sofa, moving slightly closer to her. John felt a small pang of compassion for him—he thought Mycroft wanted to comfort his mother, and honestly had no idea how to go about doing it.

The awkwardness of the moment was thankfully cut short by the sound of footsteps on the stairs, and a few seconds later Mr. Holmes and Rosie returned to the flat, carrying boxes full of pastries, which they set on the coffee table. "Oh, there was a package delivered downstairs, Sherlock," Mr. Holmes said, as he opened a box and began to pass out scones. "I didn't have a free hand to bring it up."

Sherlock's brow wrinkled for a moment, then he darted out the door and down the stairs. A moment later he was back, carrying a plain brown cardboard box, with no markings on it other than a label with Eve's name and the Baker Street address. 

"Another mystery gift from Eurus?" John suggested. Too small to be another piece of furniture—maybe she'd sent a pillow for the glider.

Sherlock crossed the room to grab the knife that sat in its usual spot on top of the mantel. He returned to the table and began to slice the tape holding the box shut. "It's not from Eurus," he announced, before he even opened the flaps. "It's from Mycroft."

"Is it? How do you know?" John looked at Mycroft, who was leaning back on the sofa, carefully holding a scone in one hand. 

"Look at him." Sherlock gestured with the knife. "He's sitting back, away from the package, even after you suggested it was from Eurus. If he thought it might be from her, he would lean forward, eager to examine any clue about where she may have sent it from. But he knows it's not from her, because he sent it himself."

Mycroft took a small bite of his scone, and chewed it slowly, then rolled his eyes when everyone continued to stare at him. "Oh, for God's sake, just open it. Yes, it's from me. It wasn't supposed to be delivered until this afternoon."

Sherlock smirked and finished opening the box, then pulled out another box, this one covered in shimmering white gift wrap. "Rosie, this is a present for Eve, but would you like to help me open it? She's too small to do it herself."

John plucked a half-eaten scone from Rosie's hand just before she flung herself towards the box. She and Sherlock tore off the wrapping paper and lifted the cover from this second box to reveal a brightly-coloured mobile, designed to hang over Eve's cot.

Sherlock scowled, though John was sure that even Rosie could tell he was actually pleased. "The solar system, Mycroft?"

"I want to ensure that my niece receives a well-rounded education from the very beginning."

"Oh, Myke." Mrs. Holmes reached across the sofa and patted him on the knee. "You do have a soft heart in there somewhere, don't you?"

"Not at all." He sniffed and took another bite of his scone. 

"Thank you, Mycroft." Sherlock closed the box up again and sat down on the floor next to the coffee table, drawing Rosie onto his lap. They both reached for another scone, although Sherlock didn't get a chance to eat his before he was interrupted by a flurry of beeps and buzzes, the sound of several phones all receiving a text. 

John frowned. His phone hadn't made a noise, but Sherlock's, Mycroft's and Mrs. Holmes's all had.

Mycroft's eyes widened slightly. "She's bold enough to text me, now, too?" He drew his phone from his pocket and looked at it. "That's the country code for France."

Sherlock read the message on his phone out loud, "Au revoir, ma belle petite famille -E." He turned to John "It means—"

"I know what it means," John said. "Goodbye, my beautiful little family."

"But not a final goodbye," Mrs. Holmes added. "Au revoir—it implies we'll see each other again."

Sherlock ignored his mother. "John, why did you never tell me you speak French?" 

"I don't really speak it," John said. He stepped closer to Sherlock and then sat down next to him on the floor, reaching for the box of scones. "But I can understand some of it, especially if it's simple phrases like that, spoken slowly by an Englishman like you."

Mycroft scoffed. "John, you've just dashed Sherlock's plans to use his mysterious French accent to seduce you."

John met Mycroft's eyes. "He doesn't need a French accent to do that." 

"Wait, sweetheart." Mrs. Holmes turned to her husband, who had settled in the old armchair next to the sofa. "Didn't Eurus send you that text, too?"

"Oh, I don't know." Mr. Holmes patted his shirt pocket, then shrugged. "I left my phone at home."

"Why on earth would you do that?"

"You know I only have it for emergencies. And if I'm with you and there's an emergency, I can just use yours."

John looked down, hiding a smile; he was sure that both Sherlock and Mycroft were rolling their eyes. Mrs. Holmes shook her head and muttered something about old men, but she was smiling, too. 

The baby monitor on the desk crackled to life, and a small cry came through the speaker, too quiet for John to hear it coming directly from the bedroom. Eve didn't sound fully awake, but Sherlock nudged Rosie off his lap and stood. At first, John thought he just wanted an excuse to escape his parents and brother, but a few minutes later, when Sherlock returned from the bedroom carrying Eve, John realised he actually wanted the chance to show her off again.

"That's your grandad over there, Eve," Sherlock said softly. "He's my daddy." He slowly lowered himself to his knees, until he was sitting on the floor next to John again, Eve cradled safely against his chest. "You've got the whole family here to see you, now."

"It's still hard to believe this is happening," Mrs. Holmes said. "Our granddaughter." She dabbed at her eyes with a paper napkin from Speedy's. "Why do you think Eurus did it? It can't have been an accident. Everything she's ever done in her life has always been deliberate."

"I'm sure it was deliberate." Sherlock traced one finger along the side of Eve's face. She turned to that side, rooting for her bottle. "I think she had a number of reasons. But mostly, I think she did it because she wants to be part of a family."

"But she left again, Sherlock," Mrs. Holmes said. "She left us, and her baby."

"I know. Because she knew that she couldn't stay. I think she knows she's damaged our family too badly to ever truly be part of it again, but that doesn't mean she doesn't still want to be. It's all she ever wanted—to make a connection. She wanted me to play with her, when we were children. I didn't know, then, and now it's too late. But she can be with us, through Eve, at least." 

Mrs. Holmes was sniffling more loudly now, and Mr. Holmes leaned forward in his chair, reaching towards her. She slipped the hand that wasn't holding the napkin in between his. He gave her hand a squeeze and said, "Who knows what will happen? Eurus has changed, we know that much at least. Maybe she'll find someone, in France or wherever she is, and start a new life, with a family of her own." 

John could hear Mycroft's snort of derision, and he agreed that Mr. Holmes's assessment of Eurus's potential for a new life was wildly optimistic, but he didn't say anything. Instead, he reached out to Rosie and pulled her into his lap. Sherlock glanced at him, then shifted sideways until their knees were touching. John smiled at him, and adjusted Rosie on his lap so he could slip his right arm around Sherlock's waist. 

He didn't know what Eurus was going to do, and if she showed up again at the flat, he would gladly phone Mycroft to have her taken back to Sherrinford. But he was glad that she had been here, and that she had left Eve behind. He wasn't going to live in fear of her return; he wasn't going to think about her at all. He was going to live his life, and be the best father he could be to Rosie and to Eve, with Sherlock at his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this story could have easily been a much longer tale, but I knew I didn't want to cover months and months of time, or write another 100K fic. So instead I just crammed everything I could into 10 chapters. :) Luckily, John and Sherlock already knew they loved each other, so getting them together didn't have to take too long.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's read this and especially those of you who took the time to leave comments! If you're interested in reading more of my fic, all of my works can be found [here](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissDavis/works), or here are my 3 other Johnlock longfics: [Breakable](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2522717) (angsty hurt/comfort) and its sequel [ Side Effects](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16530389) (less angst, more plot), and my longest fic, [Full Court Press](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4989544) (college basketball AU).
> 
> As always, feel free to [subscribe to me as an author](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissDavis/profile) if you are interested in seeing what I might write next. Thank you!


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